


I, Alone

by sleepingseeker



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Betrayal, Complete, Dismemberment, F/M, Forgiveness, Graphic Description, Healing, Hope, Kidnapping, M/M, Madness, Obsession, Sexual Situations, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 32
Words: 152,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingseeker/pseuds/sleepingseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michelangelo is captured by a rogue Foot Soldier who thinks he is his soul mate. It does not adhere to any specific 'verse.</p><p>I am moving it here for it was deleted by staff at DA during the current witch hunt against certain writers/artists. Originally posted October 8th 2013 on FFN.</p><p>Be aware of the warnings. This is a graphic heavy-themed multichapter. It is a harrowing depiction of obsession and the horrors love can manifest as. </p><p>If you are sensitive, please do not read, this is not for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indiscretion

The spires of the stone church rose high, so high, he thought if he just reached out, his fingertips could maybe just brush the bottom of the stars. They were so pretty; twinkling in the dark like . . . well, like how stars were supposed to look. It was rare to see them. The haze from the city smog and pollution usually blocked out the nighttime light show; leaving a sky that was yellowed and gray with a black edging dripping in celestial lace: an illusion from the light pollution Donatello had explained to him once. He was always quick to point out what Mikey had thought to be stars in the night sky were actually just airplanes and military jets.

But Mikey was sure that these, tonight, were really the real thing. Planes could never be so pretty. Twinkle so brightly.

His breath puffed out in a white cloud, marring his view for a moment. His brothers hated the winter. But Mikey didn't mind. He just hated feeling cold. He loved the snow and the way it made everything seem clean and fresh, at least for a little while. It was pretty and peaceful.

The night was crisp and clear; the frigid air burnt his nostrils but he took it in until his chest ached from the chill. Because it was so cold tonight, the stars were able to make an appearance. And Mikey was lucky enough to pick this spot to hide.

He knew coming up to the highest point of the steeple was sure to leave him exposed to Raphael who was hunting him. The last thing he needed was Raph winning hide and seek, again. He'd lost twice in a row already, breaking his long lasting winning streak. It was just so hard to concentrate lately. The winter had him bored to death and he found when he went up top everything was so interesting and tempting. Much more so than during the summer when he could come up whenever he practically wanted.

But it was time to take cover before he was spotted.

With a shake, he curled his fingers around the metal grating protecting the historically important building's steeple from errant pigeons and swung his legs over to the sloping roof. The toe of one boot struck the icy surface as he placed his weight on it. He slipped and slid down along the frosted shingles on his rump with wide eyes. His carapace skidded until his legs flew off the edge of the line of gutters. He twisted and managed to grip the icy roof ledge. Jaw clenched in fright, he hung there for a moment, heart pounding with panic; mind a blank of white noise.

"Oh smooth, baby brother," a voice full of mocking laughter rose up to his left.

Panting, he turned his face to see Raphael crouched on the roof.

The top half of his body hung over the back and one wing of an angel statue; looking all the world like a ghoul straight out of hell. His scarf snapped in the gusting wind. Crimson like a stream of spurting blood against the inky backdrop of the sky. With coiled grace, Raphael's arms were folded and draped over the angel's bowed head; as if the weight of his thick arms caused the humbled posture. The street lamps below gleamed off his incisors. His amber eyes caught the light, glittering with wicked glee.

"Next time you decide to pick a church roof for your hiding spot, don't make it in the middle of January." His breath puffed out in a gray cloud. "Try the back of a laundry mat or someplace else that has those nice warm vents, Dum-dum. I've been freezin' my ass off watchin' ya play King Kong. Though that little stunt where you nearly killed yourself may have been worth the wait," he chuckled and it was a rough sound.

Mikey wondered if his brother had been smoking again.

Michelangelo's arms had started to shake and his fingers were growing numb despite the gloves he wore. He glanced once more at his older brother silently pleading for help. Help that never came. He didn't know what he was expecting. He internally groaned. They were supposed to be independent, he got that. But when someone needed a little help, was that too much to ask for?

With a sigh he bunched his muscles and began to haul his dangling lower body back up and scrambled for a handhold as his knee came around. All the while Raphael watched him; a smile plastered on his face; not once offering a bit of assistance. Sweating both from the effort and the near death experience, despite the cold, Mikey scampered in a clumsy manner over the side of the roof to come up next to Raph.

Panting he said, "Geez, Raph. You coulda' helped."

"Where's the fun in that? Besides, you were stupid enough to try 'n hide up here. Figured you could manage to get yourself down."

With that, Raph gave the angel a pat on the back of the head and crouched before dropping across and down to the neighboring apartment's fire escape. Besides the tattered red scarf that April had made for him last year wrapped around his neck, Raph was only in his gear. Mikey rubbed his arms. He didn't know if Raph was so hot-blooded the cold didn't faze him or he was just so much of a hard-ass that he was numb to being able to feel anything at all. Even in his bomber jacket, hat and gloves, he was frozen.

He followed Raph down and as he landed on the railing of the fire escape, his boot slipped. His arms pin-wheeled and he let out a yelp of fright as he careened backwards. A hand shot out and roughly grabbed him by the collar.

"Christ, Mikey. Ya tryin' ta kill yourself tonight, or what?"

Raphael pulled him securely to the porch, spinning him around so fast, Mikey fell onto his bottom with a grunt. Mikey's face was flushed with embarrassment as he ducked his head. Slipping in front of Raph twice in one night. He'd never hear the end of this.

" _No_. My boot slipped."

Raphael's bare toes dug into the slushy gray snow that had accumulated on the metal porch. Michelangelo thought they looked a little on the blue shade of the color spectrum.

"That's why I go au natural, little brother." A shrill, sharp whistle cut through the whooshing sound of the billowing gust of frigid air. "Uh, that's Leo." He turned to Mikey who was climbing to his feet, brushing the wet globs of snow off his thighs and bottom while gritting his teeth. "Think you can manage getting down without any help?" he asked, a wry smile on his face.

Mikey bit his tongue, knowing anything he said would only make the tormenting worse.

"Maybe you want me ta hold yer hand going down. Like Master Splinter used ta when you were little," he went on. "Oo, or better yet, how 'bout big brother Raphie give you a piggy back ride down?" Raph sneered as he patted the top of one shoulder.

Michelangelo narrowed his eyes. "Shut up," he snapped. He twisted around to rub some life into his numb thighs from the cold and muttered, " _Asshole_."

"What was that?" Raph, of course, picked up on the muttered insult.

Mikey straightened up. Still feeling angry, he pressed his mouth into a tight line and glowered at his brother.

"That the thanks I get fer savin' your little snot-nosed ass?" his voice dropped low as he stepped closer to Mikey. He balled his fists and brought his face right up to Michelangelo's. Mikey did not break his stare, though his chest had started to heave as his heart galloped. " _Huh_ , smart mouth?"

The whistle came again. Insistent and demanding in only the way Leonardo could make non-verbal communication come across.

Raph spun around. He bellowed, "I'm COMING!"

His voice echoed up and down the narrow alleyways and off the surrounding bricks of the neighborhood. Mikey winced and could've sworn he heard the exasperated and weary sigh emitted from his eldest brother all the way up where he stood.

The light winked on in the apartment behind him. He jumped and pushed at Raph who quickly spun and started down before the owner's silhouette rose up behind the gauzy, torn curtain.

An old woman's voice in a thick New York accent called out as the window opened, "Someone out there?"

Raphael dropped to the ground without making a sound. With two hands he pulled a bundle of wet snow into a ball and gripped it in his right fist. He huffed and dashed past Donatello who'd just lifted his head from the box clutched in his arms; overflowing with discarded computer hardware along with some odd bits and pieces of metal. As he raced passed he cuffed Donnie upside his head. The mound of snow cupped within exploded all over Donatello's head and face.

Donatello's mouth gaped wide in a silent scream of shock and pain. _"Raph!"_ Don hissed; shoulders rigid and hunched. The bottom of his navy overcoat hung wetly near his ankles from walking through the snow.

"Move it or lose it," he called over his shoulder as he cackled at his second oldest brother's distress.

He stooped to scoop more, packing the snow into a tight, large snowball between his thick fingers; admiring the perfect packing quality the day's snow had become. As he stood up, he was met with a hard ball of snow to the face. The fierce impact of it knocked his head back. His heels fumbled across the slick ground and he went down with a loud grunt. Wiping furiously at his eyes with the back of one fist, he snarled and cursed.

Michelangelo burst out laughing from behind. Raphael spun where he lay and scrambled on hands and knees until he launched himself into his younger brother who had just caught up with them. They tumbled through the air as their bodies collided. The laughter choked off from Michelangelo as his breath was knocked from his lungs. They crashed through a pile of garbage cans into the side of a building. Raph reared up where he straddled his younger brother. He punched him once and Mikey blocked with both forearms and a loud growl.

"Ya think that's funny?" Raph bent over and with the side of his hand, scooped up a mound of dirty snow mixed with rotting sludge near the garbage can. He gripped it between his fingers and shoved it into Mikey's mouth and face, rubbing it in with a violent twist of his wrist. "How 'bout this?  _Eat it,_  punk!"

Michelangelo struggled frantically as the icy, oily substance was ground into his face. His front teeth stung from the chill. The bitter rank flavor of the melted muck ran through his mouth and over his tongue. He shook his head and punched at Raphael's hulking form. Raph grappled with him until he finally bucked and kicked and managed to throw Raphael off him. Coughing and sputtering, face red from the burning cold he let loose a string of curses that would've made Raphael proud had he not been in such a sour mood.

"You asked for it," Raph ground out with a sullen look and rose up on his elbows.

"I didn't do nothin'!" Mikey screamed; spitting to one side and using his forearms to wipe at his bright red cheeks. His entire face was numb and aching. He gagged and retched.  _What the hell was that snow mixed with?_

Donatello walked stiffly past them, kicking droplets of snow and mud in Raphael's direction. Raph blocked with one arm and glared up at Donatello, gray slush dripping off his snout.

"You're waking the whole neighborhood, buffoon." He shook his head and said more to himself than to Raph, "Next time, I'm just going scavenging alone."

He looked up the alley where the eldest was marching slowly back towards the grumbling, gagging, sniffling group. The long black jacket snapped in the gusting wind. The hood from his sweatshirt underneath had fallen back revealing a rigid expression. His face was a mask of neutrality, but from where he stood, Don could see his brother's eyes were a darkened storm of anger and frustration.

"You hear that, Leo?" he called out, knowing that more noise would only piss his brother off that much more. But he felt like Leo deserved it after forcing them all to come along to the dump when Donatello could've managed the run alone and with much less trouble than hauling everyone out in the cold.

"I don't care how many Foot soldiers have been hanging around near the dump. I'm going ALONE," his voice boomed. He walked past Leonardo.  _"Let's all go out, it'll be good to get some fresh air,"_  Don mumbled in a mockingly high voice meant to imitate their leader, knowing Leo could hear him.

The eldest wisely ignored Donatello as he stepped around and continued onward towards the youngest pair.

With glassy eyes full of unshed tears, Michelangelo cast around for his knit hat and found it in a soggy mess of slush. Using his fingers and thumbs he picked it up and looked at it sadly. April had made it for him last year as a gift. He shot Raphael a scowl, which would've been much more effective had his face not been bright red and his body shaking so hard.

His jacket was soaked through as well as his gloves. He shook his heavy gloves until they both fell in a loud slap onto the ground. His fingers were numb and tingling. He wouldn't be surprised if he had frostbite.

"Don't gimme that look. You asked for it," Raph snapped.

Mikey balled up the hat and threw it at Raphael's face.

"Dammit! You wanna eat some more?!"

Leonardo's shadow fell over them. "That's  _enough_ ," he growled. The two grew still and mostly quiet with sullen looks being thrown at each other. "Your behavior is unacceptable. We're ninja. Silent.  _Remember?_  What would Splinter think of this?" he hissed, eyes dark and serious; penetrating.

Raphael climbed to his feet with a muffled groan of irritation while Michelangelo looked up in shock at Leonardo's tone. Leonardo shot Raphael a glare but Raph didn't meet his furious brother's gaze.

"You can't be mad at me!" Mikey's face darted from Raph, who was looking everywhere except at Leonardo, then back to his oldest brother. "Y-You're the one that hit him with the snowball!" he accused pointing at Raph who was now rubbing the back of his neck and staring at his feet.

Leonardo crossed his arms. The material of the jacket pulled taunt across his muscular arms. "That's not the point. You two have been making a racket since we started back. Ever since you started that childish game of hide and seek, you've been-"

Leonardo stopped speaking. He tensed. His face snapped up. His arms fell to his sides. Raph instantly had his sais out. Mikey blinked where he sat in the frigid snow; staring up at Leonardo; still feeling his heart pound in his chest, still feeling the sting of unfairness at Leonardo's reprimand and lecture.

"Get back to the lair," Leo ordered in an even voice without looking at either one of them.

Raphael's amber eyes scanned the shadowy ledges of the surrounding buildings. Straining to see what Leo had noticed. His ears tuned sharply for any sound giving away the threat. All his senses, searching for what had his brother on edge; seeing and hearing nothing. He didn't know how Leo did it. But he was never wrong.

He asked without taking his eyes off the skyline, "What is it, Leo? Foot?"

Coldly, Leo snapped, "I said  _go_!" With that he dashed off into the darkness, disappearing into it as smoothly as a drop of rain being engulfed into the sea. Even his footprints from the boots on his feet seemed to melt and recede into the surrounding environment.

Mikey stood up, still shaking, worry etching lines around his eyes. "Wha . . .?"

Raph took two steps forward, as if to follow their leader.

"Hey! Raph, he said to-"

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Get yer ass home." Raph peered over his shoulder. "And be careful." He ran forward and barreled into the darkness, making the surrounding shadows recoil before swallowing his form completely.

"You, too," Mikey whispered.

He stood there for another moment. Alone and in the dark. Shivering. He felt a mix of worry and relief. He stooped and grabbed his wet belongings with a grimace. He shook them out and heavy blobs of slush fell to the ground making funny sounds that he quietly mimicked with his mouth as he moved towards the direction Don had gone off in. Just behind him he thought he heard another soft thud. Like a larger pile of snow falling from a fire escape.

Blinking, he glanced over his shoulder.

The movement was met with the blunt end of a katana. It struck the side of his head. A flash of bright pain erupted across his vision as his knees buckled. He pitched forward, dropping his wet outerwear as he grabbed at his temple with a yelp. He didn't have time to cry out again as another blow slammed into the back of his head. His body jumped from the violent impact once and then he laid still in the snow.

"It's alright. It's alright," a low voice repeated frantically as a figure dressed in black crouched next to him.

A shaking hand flitted over Michelangelo's body before finally coming to rest on his shoulder. Gently, Michelangelo's unconscious form was rolled to his back. His head lulled to one side and his mouth hung open. A purple bruise was starting to bloom along his left temple above the rim of his orange mask. The trembling hand moved from his shoulder to the side of his face; where it caressed Michelangelo's cheek.

"I'm  _sorry_ ," the man's voice was now light and strained with remorse.

He made a choked sound as he reached under the mutant's shoulders and grasped him beneath his armpits. Looking around quickly, he scrambled; feet slipping in the slush; as he pulled and dragged Michelangelo into the looming shadows where they were embraced and consumed entirely by the awaiting darkness.


	2. Of Destiny, Games and Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will never be able to listen to Bobby Darin's song "Dream Lover" the same way again. I promise.

His head rocked with a steady rhythm. His cheek bouncing lightly against the carpeted floor. His sticking eyelids rose only to fall after reaching halfway open. Still his head bopped along with the rhythm of what sounded like the rushing sound of a washing machine or traffic. It would have been soothing had he not become aware of a throbbing ache followed by an intermittent sharp pang in the side of his head. Eyes closed, he grimaced.

Why did his head hurt so much?

The air smelled of motor oil and rubber and wet wood. It reminded him of the garage in the lair. Wait a minute. Where was he? His eyes cracked open again and he found himself laying on his stomach, surrounded by darkness. The sound of something whooshing made the room vibrate and bounce. He wondered if he were inside a closet in their garage back home.

"Ah . . ." he started and gagged.

Eyes watering, he frowned. There was something in his mouth? Something was stretching his mouth open in an unpleasant and unnatural way, he realized with a shock. He moved to close his mouth, that is, he tried to. But his tongue pushed against something large and rigid wedged inside. It was smooth and tasted like wood. 

 _What the heck?_  

His jaw worked and his tongue strained against the object. His lips were dry and sore. He gagged. Breathing slowly through his nose he wondered if Raphael was pranking him. For a second, Mikey's mouth curled up into a smile. He would have to get his brother back big time for this. Because not only was this uncomfortable, it was stupid.

He gave his throbbing head a slight shake. Raphael had no talent for pranks. He always took things way too far or just went for violence. He lacked finesse. Mikey moved his hand to remove what was stuck in his mouth. His right arm moved a fraction of an inch before he felt a cord tighten around his throat abruptly ending his movement.

He froze. His eyes snapped open and darted around; searching the inky darkness, seeing nothing but a vague outline of an interior ceiling that was much too low for him to be in a closet. He realized with a thrill of fear that he was not in a closet. He was not at the lair.

The bouncing vibration he was feeling could only mean one thing. He was in the trunk of a vehicle.

Fright made his stomach clench and roll. His body blazed with awful awareness. With a grunt, he shifted his shoulders; trying to pull his arms free; trying to gain some kind of leverage to sit up. As he shifted, the cord tightened again cutting off his air. He clenched his eyes closed. Forcing his arms to relax, the cord loosened enough for him to wheeze and pull air into his straining lungs. This was no prank. He was in trouble.

_Stay calm. Stay calm._

The memory of standing in the alley, in the cold, as his brother raced after Leonardo came to him. Someone had hit him in the head just as he'd turned around.

_Oh god. Oh no._

Heart pounding, he assessed the situation and where and how his body was bound. There was a piece of wood crammed into his mouth and secured by some type of rope that bit into the sides of his cheeks and squeezed the back of his aching head where he could feel the knot. His aching arms were pressed securely to his sides. The rough edge of his shell was indented into the flesh of his forearms. His hands, numb with tingling fingers, were bent up and back towards the bottom of his carapace.

His heart raced as he struggled against the binds around his wrists. Twisting his hands and yanking. It only served to tighten the cord around his neck. He gave up on his hands as he choked.

Panic stampeded through him; making his pulse race. Trying to stay calm, Mikey labored to move his legs, sensing his thighs rubbing against the rough carpeting beneath him. But as he attempted to straighten his legs, he felt his arms pull painfully down and back and the cord around his neck grew taunt once again. He was hogtied.

He felt a renewed wash of panic flow over him as his blood ran cold with terror. He had to get free. He rocked side to side but found the bind around this throat getting tighter, if he wasn't smart about this he would strangle himself to death before he even knew where he was. Forcing himself to fall still, he panted through his teeth.

He rested his cheek against the floor of the trunk and closed his eyes. He had to calm down. He had to think. But his head hurt and he just wanted to be home right now. A feeling of sharp homesickness made him tremble. He moaned softly in the darkness.

# # #

Leonardo bled into the darkness, emerging finally out on the roof of an apartment building where he knew she prowled.

Feline and lithe, she slid from the shadows. Her long legs moved her effortlessly in a semicircle around him. Circling him. Stalking him. Her attempts at intimidation were weak and laughable. He didn't even draw his swords. His fingerless gloved hands rested with easy care at his sides.

"What are you doing following us, Karai?" he asked with a flat voice. The end of his coat whipped and snapped in the frigid air.

She was wearing a hooded cape that fell to her ankles with slits for her arms to move freely. The fabric was heavy and absorbed the light. Her hands were clad in elbow-length, black leather gloves. Silver studs lined the outside of her arms. They gleamed as she moved.

"I didn't know you owned this part of the city," she replied in a voice like silk and straightened slightly.

She twisted and lifted her hand; closing her fingers into a fist. From an outsider's perspective, it appeared she was signaling the empty air around and behind her, but Leonardo caught the line of black fabric as it reflected the yellow street lamps below. The glint of a curved sword. The barest sound of bodies retreating into the alley below reached his sensitive ears.

She turned back to him and crossed her arms. "I called off  _my_  dogs."

Leonardo stared steadily at her; unsure of the inflection in her voice.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. Then gave her head a slight shake. The heavy fringe of bangs swept back and forth just brushing her finely shaped brows. "Won't you return the favor?"

As Leo's forehead crushed into a soft frown, a bulky shape erupted from his left. He gasped as Raphael rushed Karai.

"Gotcha!"

Karai stooped and dropped into a sideways roll just as Raphael nearly barreled into her. The snow crunched beneath her and stuck to the fabric of her cape. As she came up, her short sword was in her hand.

"Playing dirty, Leonardo?" she called. "This isn't like you –" A sai came at her face, cutting off whatever else she went to say and she blocked with her blade. The weapons screeched as they skidded across each other. She pushed his hand aside with a grunt.

 _"Raph!"_  he barked. "I told you to get home!"

Raphael ignored his leader and lunged at Karai again, swiping his sais and jabbing; alternating fists as he came at her; snarling. His tattered scarf snapped at the wind like a viper striking an invisible foe.

"Thought you'd get the drop on us, huh,  _bitch_?"

She glared at the rude name. His returning grin was wide and wicked. The points of his gritted incisors gleamed in the darkness. His eyes were narrowed strips. But despite that, Karai thought she could make out the bloodlust there in his pinpricks of his pupils.

At least, she hoped it was bloodlust and not the other kind. She risked a fleeting glance at Leonardo. How much did he see?

Her heart fluttered in fear and a thrill of primal excitement. She felt her lips curl up into a smile before she stopped herself and forced her face into a blank mask. 

 _What is my problem,_  she thought, disturbed.

She had to be careful. Couldn't risk being careless with her expressions and reactions here. This wasn't a simple kid's game she was playing at. Then again, that's all life really was, wasn't it? You could play the game or be played. And Karai would never be a pawn. Not willingly, at least. Not as long as she could help it.

Her father may have plans for her; pushing her into a life she never wanted; trapping her in a corner filled with despair and desperation . . . but that was before she'd met Leonardo . . . and his brother. Here, at least, she could maneuver. She could breathe. She could play.

And as long as she could play, she had reason to go on.

Her hood fell back as she dodged another swing of Raphael's sai. He was getting awfully close.

Involuntarily, she swallowed; doing her best to keep a mask of disinterest on her face as her eyes continued to hazard fleeting glances towards Leonardo, gauging his reaction to his brother's attack. As usual, his face was nearly unreadable. He mostly looked pissed. She huffed, blocking another blow aimed at her midsection. She growled in irritation.

Karai slid her boots through the snow, dodging with measured care, trying all the while to seem uninterested and bored. Her breath was becoming unsteady as it puffed in little clouds in front of her face. She couldn't let this one see her intimidated. He'd love that. She couldn't show her fear . . . she glanced again at Leonardo who was approaching . . . or any other errant feelings that decided to crop up.

She couldn't let her guard down. Not for an instant. Most of all, she had to keep their secret, at all costs. Or the game would be over. In the worst way.

She turned her head to say something taunting to Leonardo, a wry smile on her mouth until Raphael spun and threw a kick at her face that connected. Leonardo's gasp carried over the sharp crack of Karai's neck and her soft, surprised cry as she fell backwards into the slushy snow; sliding back until her shoulders struck the roof access shed.

Raphael wasted no time and pounced on top of her; knocking any remaining breath from her abdomen. His thick legs straddled her, over her hips. One hand braced against her chest, between her breasts. Her face reddened, but if he noticed, he didn't show it. Her control on the situation was slipping as incredulity made her stomach clench and drop. He reared back with his fist, the blunt end of his sai posed to connect.

" _Raphael_ ," she breathed and trembled, bracing for the impact.

The carefully constructed walls dropped away and fear and disbelief raced across her features. He hesitated for a fraction of a second. She saw him catch himself as regret flashed through his bright glassy eyes. He blinked and she saw his throat work.

He started to drop his fist when Leonardo tackled him. The brothers fell in a tumbling mass of arms and legs, black fabric and tattered red shreds.

Dazed, and more than a little relieved, Karai rose up on her elbows. He watched the two wrestle and fight. A string of curses filled the air that made her brows raise. Their rough voices carried and she couldn't tell where one brother began and the other ended. Shaken, she rose to her feet and backed into the awaiting safety of the shadows. Her fingers gently pressed at her swelling bottom lip. She couldn't trust herself to stay for the aftermath.

Wiping at the moisture on her cheeks she spun and raced across the roof top. Not for the first time, she felt more than a little overwhelmed and out of her depth. Anger speared her and she pushed the weak thoughts away. She could handle it. She swallowed and the coppery blood soured her stomach.

Unable to stop herself, she glanced over her shoulder at the brothers as she paused in her retreat. Hurt lanced her heart. For Raphael's violence with her as well as Leonardo's hesitation in stopping his brother's attack. What did she expect from the two of them? She knew exactly what she was getting into at the start of this dangerous game she chose to play.

She spun around, heel digging into the slush; internally cursing herself for being weak once again. She steeled herself and vaulted over the ledge of the building down to the fire escape below.

 _"I'm in control,"_  she whispered fiercely to herself.

Tears stung her eyes. Vaguely, she wondered if the game she was in the middle of would end with her death and two very indifferent brothers.

# # #

Music flooded into the dark; making him jump in fright. His eyes darted around. The melody blared all around him, vibrating his shell and stomach. Involuntarily, he listened to the lyrics and frowned. The song was old. More than that, it was an oldie. He knew this song. Bobbie Darin's sweet vocals boomed around him . . .

_'Dream lover until then_

_I'll go to sleep and dream again_

_That's the only thing to do , til all my lovers dreams come true…_

_Cause I want (yeah-yeah, yeah)_

_a girl (yeah-yeah, yeah)_

_to call (yeah-yeah, yeah)_

_my own (yeah yeah)'_

The music ended abruptly as the vehicle came to a rough stop. Mikey felt his body jolt and the cord tightened around his throat. His eyes watered as he choked and gagged around the wooden plank in his mouth. His heart hammered against his chest, pounding into the thin carpet beneath him. The car bounced and he heard the door creak open and slam shut. The jingling sound of keys was followed by a clink sound and a groan as the trunk was opened. Light flooded over his face and Mikey cringed back, blinking.

The silhouette of a man stood before him, shining a flashlight right into his watering eyes; blinding him initially. Mikey's eyes darted away from the blazing light and focused on the man's body. He realized without too much surprise that he was wearing a Foot uniform.

This was it. He was caught. It was only a matter of time before one of them were captured. He was sure that he'd be brought into the Foot headquarters to be thrown before the mercy of their arch enemy, the Shredder.

He tried not to think of the many threats that the Shredder had made about what he'd do to them if he'd ever caught them. Thinking like that would only add to his panic. So he pushed those frightful memories away and instead thought of his brothers. He knew they'd find him. He only hoped that Donatello and his brothers would figure out what had happened to him before Shredder decided to shower him with his brand of mercy.

"You're awake?" a voice, soft and gentle, reached him.

For a moment, he braced himself with the thought that perhaps he'd been lucky with his captor. Maybe he'd ended up in the hands of someone with a little sense of empathy or kindness.

"Mhk," he attempted, meaning to say, _I'm choking to death over here, dude. A little help?_

The soldier set the flashlight to one side, the light illuminated Mikey's thigh. He moved his hands to the knots at the back of his carapace.

Mikey closed his eyes in relief as he felt the cord around his neck ease. He panted over the wood in his mouth. Then he felt his legs being fumbled with and then slowly unbent. His calves were a tingling fire of pins and needles. He grimaced but suddenly a thrilling thought struck him. Was this guy untying him completely? Mikey's eyes darted to the side as the man was doing something with his numb ankles. Nice or not, this guy was in the Foot and Mikey was smart enough to take an opportunity that fate offered up without a second guess.

It was now or never!

Legs free, Michelangelo twisted his hips so that his knees folded under him, toes braced back. The man grabbed at him, figuring out what was happening, but too late. He stumbled as Mikey lunged up and out of the trunk right at the soldier's torso with a grunt. Barreling into the man, Michelangelo rolled head over heels in a somersault over the man's body and onto the gravelly ground.

He came up onto his knees. He gathered his senses with a sharp shake of his head and hopped up onto his feet. He moved to run, but as he stepped forward his ankle snapped the rope taunt between his legs and he only managed to fall forward. Hands still secured at his sides and shell, he could do nothing to brace his fall and ended up slamming fully into the rough ground below.

His teeth dug into the wood as his jaw was jarred from the impact. He groaned and rolled his head to one side. The soldier was standing over him.

His voice was even and calm, a teacher disappointed by a student not paying attention but is willing to be patient, anyway. "This is no way to behave. I was excited when I saw you were awake." He placed one hand on his hips and sighed. He slowly pulled something long and rigid from the side of his belt. Michelangelo strained to see what it was. "I thought  _you_  would understand. I want this to be easy."

The man dropped his head and Mikey could just make out that he was shaking it side to side in a sad way. Mikey's mind raced. If the guy came any closer he'd fight him, bound or not. He'd knock him out and then get to cover before the soldier's buddies showed up to escort him to Shredder. 

 _Good plan. Solid plan._  He just had to figure out  _how_  he'd do that with his arms and legs tied together.

"But you had to attack me. Didn't you? They want you to think we're enemies."

Michelangelo's brows came together at the odd statement. What was this guy talking about?

"We're going to be friends. All true relationships, the ones that are meant to last start that way. But I'm sure you know that, Michelangelo."

He couldn't help but feel a shiver run up his spine as the soldier said his name. That he knew it wasn't so much a surprise. The Foot Clan had plenty of intel on him and his brothers. It was the  _way_  he said it. There was an intimacy to it that unnerved the young mutant.

The man crouched and Michelangelo shifted his upper body and moved to roll away when he was caught by one shoulder. His knees came up and he braced his feet on the man's chest, pushing him back. The soldier grabbed his ankles, stopping his backwards momentum.

"Grrrr . . .  _mmphk hk hgk gahk!_ " he tried to growl but only choked on the wooden gag.

The man grappled with his legs. Mikey kicked and bucked as his head and shoulders dug into the rocky soil under him. His hands were being crushed beneath him from his desperate effort to fight. He ignored the pain as it streaked up into his elbows. He couldn't be taken again; not when he was so close to getting away.

He may be the youngest of his family, but that didn't mean he was helpless. No matter what Raph or Leo thought. He'd show them and this jerk. He wouldn't go down so easy. He'd make this guy sorry he picked him to capture. Sweat was running down his head, burning his eyes. It was hard to breathe with the gag in his mouth.

His chest was heaving and he flinched as the man's fist struck him in one of his knees. He whimpered and his leg shook from exertion and pain. No! He had to escape! This might be his only best chance to make a break for it. Mikey, eyes in panicked circles, struggled to twist and kick the man in the face.

The soldier's voice rose to a strained, worried pitch as he blocked the assault. "Stop it! You mustn't struggle like this!"

He felt the hands release his legs. He twisted to his side with the intention to scramble away on his knees when something cool prodded the side of his neck, just under his jawline. The end of something metal and jagged.

Mikey froze as a scent of something like ozone hit his sensitive nostrils. His eyes widened. His mind screamed,  _Wait!_

_"Mmpf!"_

Then his body was wracked with explosive, electric pain. Bright white waves of sharp agony blinded him as his body jumped and contracted until he collapsed onto the ground, writhing and seizing. Foam filled the space in his mouth and dripped from his dry cracked lips. He whimpered shrilly as his chest squeezed all the air from his lungs in a long wheeze and his heart slammed too fast within him. The terrible pain seemed to go on forever until finally, the world went black and he felt nothing at all.

Panting, the soldier fell on top of Michelangelo's twitching, but unconscious body. He dropped the modified cattle prod into the gravel and wrapped his arms around Mikey's torso.

"I told you to stop!" he cried.

He rose up on his knees and pulled back one fist. He struck Mikey's face again and again until the wooden gag cracked and crimson blood flooded the spaces between the turtle's mouth and the gag. It ran down and over his cheek in a steady flow. Each ragged breath the mutant took, the blood gurgled in tiny, foaming bubbles.

The man rested his head on Michelangelo's chest. He pressed his ear into his plastron and listened to the fluttering heart beating within. The sound soothed him. His shoulders shook as he allowed tears of regret to fall, but after a moment, he composed himself.

"You should've stopped," he mumbled in a petulant voice, prying with one finger into the grove of Michelangelo's chest plate.

He sat up and examined his prize. A bolt of lust rushed through him. He imagined turning the turtle over and taking him there, right in the gravel, right in the open, where anyone could see. The temptation made the soldier quake. His hands trembled at his sides. His hungry eyes roved over the unconscious mutant, from his firm legs and strangely alluring plastron, up over his wide chest and throat. There he paused.

Michelangelo had a thin mark running around his throat from the earlier restraints. The man grimaced. He didn't like how that looked. It was ugly.

He reached down and with his thumb he smeared the line of blood across Mikey's bottom, swollen lip. Back and forth, back and forth. The soldier felt himself warm with the action. Again he was tempted to give in to his lust.

He slowly titled Michelangelo's face to one side. His left cheek was puffy and darkened. The feeling faded to a dull ache.

"Tch, dammit. Look what you've made me do to you." He looked away, disgusted. Then glanced sideways at him, "Aw, our first fight," he said with wistful longing and pulled his thumb against Michelangelo's bottom lip before releasing it.

He stood up and dusted himself off. There would be plenty of time for giving into lustful feelings. Once the two of them were settled. Then they'd have all the time in the world to explore one another.

As his eyes roved over Michelangelo's prone body once again; taking in the fine lines and curves of his limbs and muscles, a smirk danced along his mouth but quickly fell away. What was he thinking? If he was caught it would be all over. For both of them. The Shredder, or worst yet, that little minx, Karai, would never understand the situation. Panic flooded his heart. He twisted to check if anyone had seen or heard anything, but knew that there was no way.

He closed his eyes and grinned. He was being silly. The Victorian style home looming up the long driveway was dark. There were no soldiers stationed here and there wouldn't be. Not for a while at least.

This property was used solely as a reconnaissance spot for its proximity to the docks as well as the isolation. The property consisted of an acre and a half with the furthest portion of the outskirts of the property bordering the far end of a large, mostly neglected, cemetery. There was an entire division of Foot soldier who scoped out properties like this to acquire for such purposes to serve the needs of the clan. One of his fine companions had clued him into this particular spot. Even a year ago, as his careful planning was just started to take shape, he knew this was the perfect place where he and his soul mate would consummate their destiny.

Content that they were indeed alone, he calmed himself. He went to the task of dragging Michelangelo's body up to back of the house. To the storm cellar's hatch in the rear yard.

He crouched and gripped both of the turtle's ankles and began pulling on him as he walked backwards. The blood pooling along the back of Michelangelo's throat from his mouth streaked in a thin, uneven line as he was dragged down the stony path.


	3. Sweet Like Candy

_"She may contain the urge to run away, but hold her down with soggy clothes_

_and breezeblocks._

_Muscle to muscle and toe to toe -_

_The fear has gripped me but here I go._

_My heart sinks as I jump up._

_Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut." –Breezeblocks, Alt-J_

_\------------------------------------------------------------_

"Get the hell offa me," Raphael snarled and punched Leonardo in the face.

Leo swung his head to one side but the blow clipped his jaw, rattling his teeth. Stars flashed before his vision, but he quickly brushed the pain away as Raph swung at his face again. He lurched back and brought his elbow down in a swift jab to his brother's throat. Raphael bucked beneath him and Leonardo scrambled off just as he turned onto his side, clutching his throat and choking.

Panting, Leonardo looked around the roof. His shoulders slumped as he realized that Karai was gone. He didn't even have a chance to talk to her.  _Dammit_. Raph just  _had_  to interfere. Always sticking his big snout where it didn't belong.His infuriated gaze turned to his brother who was recovering from the jab by giving him a rude gesture with his finger.

Leo narrowed his eyes. "The next time I tell you to go home. Do it," he growled.

Raphael knelt in the snow. The pads on his knees were soaked through. He shivered as an icy breeze chilled his sweat-drenched exposed skin. He braced his hands on his splayed thighs. The crimson scarf hung limp over one shoulder. He threw the end of it over to his back.

Voice rough, he barked out a hoarse laugh in Leonardo's direction, then climbed to his feet, dusting the clumps of snow from his body. "That the thanks I get from savin' you from super ninja bitch, huh? Or . . ." he tilted his head and considered Leonardo as he stood breathing heavy and looking furious, "maybe there's another reason you're so pissed at me."

Leo said nothing. His breath puffed out in a bluish white cloud before his face. His stare frigid and harsh like the air surrounding them.

# # #

The last time he'd seen Karai alone had been two weeks ago. They had met at the edge of a neglected park not far from the train yards. She was seated on a swing and as he approached she smiled sweetly at him and asked for a push. The expression made warmth spread through him.

"What?" he asked as he emerged from the shadows.

She had left a message for him on the bridge saying she needed to see him. Something about feeling bored and wanting to talk. It was an odd message that made him feel a surge of mixed emotions. And like a love-sick fool that he denied vehemently to himself that he was, he showed up; had been counting the days until they were to meet.

She was smiling at him. A smile full of warmth and genuine happiness to see him, it seemed. He felt his heart quicken and internally cursed himself for being foolish.

"Give me a push. To get me started."

With hesitant steps he came closer, casting furtive glances around for both civilians and hidden soldiers waiting to pounce on him. But it seemed that they were alone. The air was fresh and cool. There was a threat of snow in the heavy black clumps of clouds that took turns blotting out the full moon only to slid away and leave the world below illuminated in its soft blue light.

He stood behind her, unsure and awkward. She turned to look up at him, green eyes catching the moonlight and sparkling. He felt his heart stumble, though his face remained a neutral mask.

"What are you waiting for?"

He reached out and grabbed the chain, bringing it back and roughly shoving it forward. She swayed side to side and laughed at his poor attempt at such a simple task; wobbling.

It was the first time he'd ever even touched a swing set. He felt the back of his neck heat up. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave in that moment. His pride bruised by her teasing. But instead of leaving, he reached out as her back came up to him and he pressed his hand into the center of her back, squared his feet and with the grace of the ninja master that he was, gave her an elegant and much smoother push.

Her feet went flying as the swing moved to the full arc. A shout of delight broke from her lips before she could stop herself. From the corner of her eye, she caught him running underneath her legs to stand in front of her. His long black coat snapped in the frigid air.

He stood there; hands on his hips in triumph. A wide smile on his face at her joyful response to his push.

As the swing reached its full backward tilt and started forward, her eyes widened. She couldn't stop the forward momentum of the swing. She was going to plow into him or knock him over if he didn't move.

"Oh! Leonardo!" she cried as her feet came at his head.

In an attempt at sparing them both the collision, she released the chains and soared off the wooden seat. She felt his strong hands catch her as she sailed over his head; maneuvering his hands and legs to brace against her weight; spinning her body around until she found herself sliding in front of him. The length of her body dragged down against the front of his. She felt the rippling muscles beneath the plastron that covered his body as her softness pressed into his firm build. The toes of her boots touched down; his hands on her waist, holding her close to him, firmly. She could feel the hammering of his heart and it matched the pace of her own.

Out of breath, she tried to laugh at the entire situation, but found the intense look in his stormy eyes had stolen any remaining breath away from her.

For as long as she had known them, the side of her nature that was daring and curious had been interested in him and his brothers, or rather, one brother in particular. Leonardo's sense of honor and the way he desperately clung to his notions of right and wrong tickled her and endeared him to her. He was so good. Almost too good to be true. There was something about him that she found intrigued her and he was often on her mind. She found herself being drawn more and more towards that light that burned inside of him so brightly; so righteously. What started out as a mere curiosity and a game to play was slowly becoming a complicated labyrinth of secret desires and hidden emotional attachment. Not what she had planned for herself when she had started this game.

And now, being held so close, so very close, she couldn't deny that Leonardo was physically magnificent despite being only partially human and partially reptilian. It was bad enough that his persona was clouding her mind, now  _this_.

Being this close to him only seemed to magnify his powerful primal energy and her body burned for him in response. A yearning that would have to be met and quenched elsewhere, later. She was playing with fire here and things were getting a little too warm for her comfort zone. Again she tried to laugh off the situation, but she only managed a weak sort of huff and turned her face away; unable to hold the intensity of that gaze; cheeks flushing, inner thighs quivering.

Immediately, he released her and took a half-step back as if catching himself doing something that he only just realized was wrong. He cleared his throat roughly and dropped his eyes to the ground.

"I-I didn't want you to fall," he said quickly as in explanation for his bold behavior.

"Don't be insulting," she snapped and his face shot up.

The fragile shield of humor she grasped at was gone and her heart raced from a surge of unwanted feelings. Anger was an easy emotion to understand. Much simpler than the stampeding emotions clouding her head at the moment. So she latched on to her anger and fed it indignation and feigned offense.

"You forget that I'm  _kunoichi_." She pulled her sword from her saya at her waist. "A dangerous thing to do."

Surprise and something like disappointment flickered through his eyes and though she felt a pang of regret, she showed him only eagerness to fight. The memory of his body pressed into hers warmed her cheeks again and she pushed it away. What was not so easy to dismiss was the feeling of happiness she'd felt when he first stepped out of the shadows a few moments ago. With some reluctance he pulled his sword free.

"I . . . thought you wanted to . . ." the words trailed off as if he were feeling embarrassed for even suggesting that he thought she hadn't lured him here only to fight.

She interjected quickly, "Play? Well, you were right. So, stop standing there like a fool."

He blinked at the insult as if it had actually stung. She steeled herself against the jolt of remorse she felt at hurting his feelings and swung her sword in a lazy arc around the top of her head. The blade caught the moonlight and winked at him with a wicked glee, an anticipatory hunger. "Let's play."

# # #

"That it, Leo? Aw, how cute. Standin' in the cold, freezing your ass off while you try to get the courage to ask her if she likes ya, huh, Fearless?" Raph asked with a sneer. He took two steps towards his brother, closing the distance between them. Getting in his face. "Until I showed up and cramped your style," he smiled and it was a slick thing; cruel and hard.

Leonardo continued to stare into his eyes; looking murderous as his face darkened. Raphael eased back and chuckled, "Like you'd even know what to do with her."

Leonardo's fists clenched and unclenched. He kept his feelings well-guarded. Or so he thought. The fact that Raphael had so easily seen through his veneer of disinterest was unsettling. He couldn't risk saying anything that would further incriminate him, so he switched gears.

"Let's go," he said abruptly and turned. He took a few steps and looked over his shoulder. Raph was heading in the opposite direction. He paused, "I said, let's go, Raph."

Raphael wagged a finger over his shoulder as he continued to cross the roof, "Yeah, I'll catch up."

"What?!" Leonardo had had just about enough of Raphael for one evening. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten as he hunched his shoulders. " _Raph_ ," he barked but Raphael was already over the side of the building and gone.  _"Dammit!"_

Leo paced the roof in a circle, fuming. Torn over whether it was worth it to go after the stubborn bastard or just let him go. From below a siren blared, crying in the night. A heavy weariness settled over him and he suddenly just wanted to go home and go to bed. If he were really lucky, Mikey would have made everyone a light snack once he got back to the lair.

With a grim expression on his face, he spun around. His coat flared like the wing of some nocturnal beast snapping at the frigid bite of the gushing wind. Grounding his teeth together in frustration, he dashed into the night; heading for home; worried over Raph's destination, but unable to specifically identify exactly what he was worried about.

# # #

Karai set her belt down on the end table. She reached back and rubbed the side of her face where Raphael's blow had connected. Her tongue jabbed the wide gash her teeth had cut and she grimaced. That bastard! How dare he hit her so hard!

A shadow passed over her window and she twisted; head cocked. Her fingers stretched out to take hold of her short sword where she set it next to the front door of her temporary apartment.

Instead of the hilt, she felt three large fingers wrap around her wrist and grip tightly. She tensed, but didn't react in time. Her arm went up and back behind her, being bent at a cruel angle. The breath caught in her throat and she hissed in pain.

She lurched forward and she felt him grind himself into her from behind. A rush of heat incinerated her lower abdomen. She felt her cheeks redden. A low chuckle identified the intruder. Not that she had any doubt who it was from the rough handling.

Her voice wavered around the edges as she snarled, "I'm surprised you had the nerve to show up here after that performance on the roof, Raphael."

"Should I be scared you'll retaliate?" he teased and his breath danced across the back of her neck.

She broke out in goose-pimples and had to fight to hide the shiver of pleasure that raced through her. He let her go and she spun around, not wasting a moment. Her hand flashed out and caught his cheek. The slap cracked loud through the quiet of the apartment. The impact of it only made his face turn slightly to the left.

He slowly turned to look at her as he crossed his arms and tilted his head at her. Though not much taller than her, he seemed to loom over her like a finely sculpted titan. Raphael's amber eyes gleamed with an inner fire that smoldered and left her panting. She shook out her sore hand and swallowed; heart fluttering.

"That's for calling me a bitch," she growled and her voice sounded weak and frail, breathless. Internally, she cursed.

"Got it out of your system?"

"Not even close," she purred as she collected herself and grappled to gain control on the situation. She ran a hand through her hair and hoped he didn't notice how her fingers trembled.

" _Good_ ," he said, a growl in his voice and a lustful glint in his eyes.

He reached forward and gripped her by the upper arms and pulled her close; wrapping his heavily muscled arms tightly around her back in a python-like grasp. The breath was stolen from her with the swift and crushing movement. Just like that the room spun and Karai felt as if she was suddenly out too deep and drowning.

He pressed a hungry kiss to her mouth. The sound of fabric being torn filled the air as his strong fingers dug into the material of her uniform and tugged it from her flesh.

She wanted to tell him to take it easy; bracing her hands against his broad shoulders and pushing, but she might as well have been trying to push over a skyscraper; for all the effort she gave, he didn't budge an inch. It was always this way with him. The moment she finally got it through to him and he fully understood that she was interested in him more as a lover than a sparring partner, his intense focus on having sex was . . . impressive.

She wanted to take control, but instead, she felt him dominating her, as always. She felt the world tilt as he pushed her backwards onto the floor.

"W-Wait," she gasped. He paused, face buried in her neck, listening. "Let's go in th-the bedroom, at least."

With a grunt, he rose up and gathered her in his arms and stormed down the short hallway. He kicked open her bedroom door and she winced as it banged against the wall, the doorknob knocking a dent into the drywall. With a smooth jerk of his arms, she flew through the air, landing on her mattress; the breath rushed from her as she bounced.

Wasting not another second, he pounced on her; pinning her to the bed before she could say another word or even catch her breath.

# # #

Mikey's eyes cracked open and he became aware of a throbbing ache pulsing through his face. His head hurt and there was an awful taste in the back of his throat. Coppery and thick. Numbly he turned his head to the side and grimaced. His mouth felt funny and not in a ha-ha sort of way. It hurt when he tried to move his dry tongue around to poke at what exactly was causing the pain. He found the inside of one side of his cheeks hot. It tasted of blood and was swollen and tender.

A frown puckered his brows. He didn't remember being punched in the mouth . . . at least the wooden gag was gone. The gag! His face shot up and he blinked furiously to clear his vision as the memory of fighting the Foot soldier came back to him.

He was leaning partially on his shell against a wall; arms over his head. When he pulled on them, he heard chains rattling and felt the metal cuffs bite into the tender flesh of his wrists. He couldn't move one arm without moving the other. He craned his neck up to see a thick spacer bar between his wrists, attached to the metal cuffs, keeping his wrists just about shoulder width apart. He yanked and pulled but there was very little give in the chains. It was only making his skin chafe so he stopped to catch his breath.

He twisted his chin back and forth to discover a wide metal collar fixed around this throat. The edge dug into his chin with the movement. It wasn't tight, but the idea of it being there made him suddenly feel like he was choking. His legs were free and his heels dug into the lumpy mattress that he found himself propped on.

He spent a few seconds giving into panic as his legs kicked and he struggled to free himself only to slump back against the wall, panting and feeling the blood trickle down his left arm. He had to calm down. He glanced around, hoping to spot something he could use to free himself with.

He was in a room not much bigger than their living room back at the lair. The air smelled musty and damp. A shiver raced over his bare flesh.

He noticed his coat and all his other belongings had been stripped from him. He was on a mattress in one corner. The ceiling was low and rough. His eyes roved over the sinister looking manacles and chains and hooks suspended from the ceiling at various points. He looked up and spotted a long metal bar hanging from the ceiling just over his head. This was like something out of one of the horror movies he used to watch.

He felt his heart start to hammer and he forced himself to remain calm. He swallowed dryly and decided now was not the best time to revisit those particular memories. He was sure he was here temporarily before being turned over to Foot headquarters and the Shredder. Those chains and things were probably just there to intimidate him. Forcing down his growing terror, he continued to gaze around in the darkness.

The walls were rough stone and a lone window above on his right allowed some gray light to filter in. He felt a flare of bright hope that was quickly extinguished. A row of black bars ran vertically through the opening, not that he could've squeezed through the space if they weren't there, the window was more like an air vent, narrow and not much wider than eight inches or so. Dust motes twirled in the air in lazy arcs as Mikey's eyes squinted into the darkness to make out the rest of the room.

There was a wooden staircase in front of him and a little to the left. If he were to escape, it looked like that was his best option. Unless there was another, larger, window on the opposite wall hidden in the dark, but he doubted it.

Across the room to the side of the staircase was a long wooden table, in the same rough looking wood as the staircase was made of. Various tools were laid out on the table, but Mikey couldn't tell what they were. A large plastic bucket sat on the floor next to the table. There was a large metal basin set behind the stairs.

Next to the basin, he thought he could make out a pile of something that vaguely looked like his coat and pads. A thrill went through him. If this guy was so stupid to leave his chucks in the same room as him, then he'd have a chance!

He sat up straighter and pulled at the chains holding his arms. The chains rattled and he grunted. He just needed to get over to them and he'd be in much better shape.

A groaning noise caught his attention as more gray light flooded into the room. An icy gust of wind left him shivering so hard the chains above him tinkled and rattled. The staircase let out a creak and the sound of boots striking the steps reached him. The Foot soldier was coming down the staircase, a rubber hose was coiled around one arm and a heavy bag was slung over his opposite shoulder. In his right hand was the black rod that had incapacitated Mikey earlier. His eyes fell on the metallic rough tip and he swallowed remembering the electric agony searing through his nerve endings. He never wanted to feel that pain again.

The man strode to the bottom of the steps. He kept his head tilted in Mikey's direction as he leaned over to one side and deposited the bag and hose onto the floor near the basin. Mikey's eyes stared at the black rod in the man's hand as he turned around to face him.

"Welcome home, Michelangelo," came the low, even voice.

Mikey held his tongue and kept his racing thoughts to himself. His mind buzzed with questions. The soldier moved over to the mattress where Mikey was chained and stood to one side, staring down at him through the blank mask emblazoned with the crimson symbol of the Foot clan on the center of his forehead. He swiftly knelt next to the bed and with a smooth motion pulled the mask from his face.

"I want to introduce myself properly."

The man had close cropped sandy blonde hair. The top was choppy and a few long strands hung down over his forehead. The man had almond-shaped wide-set eyes. In the dim light, Mikey could just make out a light blue almost gray color to them. He had a short nose and a pointed chin set in a slightly rounded face.

"I'm Malcolm," he paused and stared at Michelangelo with an expectant gaze. After a moment, a flicker of disappointment flashed before his eyes, but then a wide smile split his face and Mikey could see that the man's front top tooth was cracked on the diagonal.

"Malcolm," he repeated. He leaned closer to Mikey and said loudly to his face, "MALCOLM."

"H-Hi," Mikey stuttered, unsure of just what this guy wanted from him. His mouth hurt to talk. He narrowed his eyes at the man, remembering that he was most likely the reason his mouth was battered.

"M." He pointed at his chest then he pointed at Mikey. "Like you! M for Michelangelo. M for Malcolm. You see?" He nodded in an encouraging way that had Mikey nodding along with him numbly. "We're like the candy. Well, you're like the candy, really. Because . . ." his voice dropped low to a shy whisper, "you're so sweet."

"Th-The candy?" Mikey asked, completely lost.

"Yeah. Yes. That's right," he said, nodding enthusiastically. "M and M's."

Mikey stared blankly at him.

Malcolm's face dropped. "We . . . We're like . . . candy? You don't like them?" His shoulders slumped and he looked away, twisting his body to face the room. He muttered something to himself and then slammed his fist into his forehead. "Stupid! I knew it was stupid!"

He twisted back in time to catch Mikey's expression of confusion and irritation. "Don't look at me like that," Malcolm said, face darkening. His voice changed pitch and took on a deep tenor, "I don't like that look. It was funny. You like to joke. I wanted to make a joke to make you laugh."

"Uh, yeah. Well, that's really . . . nice of you. But I'm not exactly in a laughing type mood here." Mikey glanced up at the chains and the metal spacer bar. Malcolm followed his gaze.

In a distracted voice, he said, "But you're  _always_  laughing." He jumped to his feet and started to pace. The cattle prod was gripped tightly in his hand and it bobbed as he turned and paced the length of the floor. "Always laughing around  _them_."

He tapped the side of his head with the bar. He made an aggravated growling sound. Stopping suddenly, he stared at Mikey for a long time without speaking. Mikey stared back and shifted slightly.

"Look, uh, M-Malcolm –"

"Call me . . . Mal," he said breaking into Mikey's sentence in a voice that sounded like it came from far away. "I want you to call me something intimate. Something only you would call me." He nodded, his eyes coming back into focus. "Yeah. Mal. I like it. Mal!"

"Uhm, okay . . . Mal, these chains are kind of uncomfortable. Do you think maybe you could loosen them or something?"

"No," he replied flatly, immediately.

Michelangelo shifted his bottom. The collar around his neck felt heavy. He could feel the tendrils of sweat as they trickled from the back of his head down between the metal and his neck; leaving his skin clammy and slick. His flesh was already getting raw from the rough edge rubbing whenever he moved his head. His mind raced. He had to be careful.

If only Donnie were here to do the talking. He'd know what to say to trick this guy into inadvertently helping him escape. Even Leo. He was always so clever with plans. He'd know just what to say. But his brothers weren't there with him.

He was alone.

And in that moment he felt completely the separation from his family. From his brothers who always looked out for him even when Raph was being an ass. He wanted to go home. Fear and desperation welled up within him. He had to get out of these chains. Anything would be better than sitting here chained like an animal.

"Then . . . what are you waiting for? Get it over with!" Mikey yelled, feeding his growing fear into something useful, like anger. "Get me out of this hole and take me to your Master!" he demanded.

Mal tilted his head. "My Master?" He stopped pacing and stood in front of Mikey once more. "You mean  _Karai_? Why would you want to see that little whore?"

Mikey blinked at that comment, not expecting it at all. He thought there was more respect for the leaders in the Foot clan. He brushed away his confusion. "I-I thought . . . The Shredder had you capture me. It-It doesn't matter!" Mikey slammed his arms against the stones behind him. He grunted and continued banging the chains. "Just get me out of here! Now!"

The man fell forward onto his knees onto the mattress. He leaned close to Mikey and grabbed his face, hard, squeezing his cheeks together. His mouth flooded with blood and he growled but it turned into a soft whimper of pain.

Mal spoke into his face, "Are you so eager to die?" Mal's eyes were bright and almost colorless now that Mikey got a good look into them. Their eyes locked. Something sharp flashed through the man's irises and he released Mikey's face.

Panting, Mikey struggled to bring his legs up to kick the man, hoping to knock him back and away, but found it nearly impossible to adjust his weight to brace himself. Mal suddenly grabbed his thighs and forced them still. He was looking down at Mikey's body with an intense focus. Mikey shook roughly, trying to dislodge the man's grip on his thighs, but Mal held on, pressing them down.

"I didn't bring you here just to turn you over to that bitch, Karai," he said. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Michelangelo. "Why? Do you want to fuck her too? Like your brothers?"

Mikey's eyes widened into circles and he froze. What was this guy talking about?

His face shot to the right as Malcolm slapped him. His cheek blazed with tingling pain and he tasted fresh blood. He swallowed and his stomach curdled with the thick substance. He thought he was going to be sick and did his best to ignore the bloody bile rising in the back of his throat.

"You don't want her. Don't tell me you want her! She's got your brothers! Why does she get you, too?"

 _"Grah!"_ He shoved Mikey's shoulders and his shell hit the wall. "You know what she's like?" he asked suddenly, his voice dropping as his eyes widened. He lifted his hands in front of Mikey's face and fluttered his fingers. "She's like a little spider," he said, annunciating each syllable. "Weaving her little web to snare little turtles who don't know what a lying little whore she is." He made a circle between finger and thumb and with his other hand he moved his index and middle finger in and out, simulating sex. "She's got her hole filled with two cocks. She doesn't need yours, too."

Mikey felt his face blush despite himself. This guy was making stuff up to get to him. No way were his brothers seeing Karai on the side. He'd have known. He'd have caught on if one or both of them were sneaking around. But then his heart dropped. The memory of Raph and Leo at various times slipping out, only to return home as he was preparing breakfast, making him only dimly realize at the time that they'd been out all night came to him, leaving him feeling uncomfortable and nervous.

"Besides, she would devour your sweetness and spit out your bones when she was done with you," he went on recapturing Mikey's attention. "But don't worry. I will keep you safe."

His face shot up at this strange comment. Mikey froze as he listened intently.

"I knew it was up to me. It was always up to me. The others would've gotten you eventually. I know this because I've watched you. Studied you. You're not as smart as your brothers."

Mikey frowned at the insulting observation.

"You're not as skilled. Not as strong. Look how easily I caught you. You were lost in your head, in that alley, like you always are. And I love that about you."

Mikey swallowed as his frown deepened.

"You're just lucky I was the one that got you and not the other soldiers. So, so lucky," his voice dropped again. Low and husky. Slowly he brought his left hand upwards, sliding it along his thigh until he stopped where Mikey's leg met his body.

"Since the day I saw you, running on that roof top two years ago, I knew. When I laid mine own eyes upon your magnificent form, I knew. I knew you were sent to me. To belong to me. A gift. I deserve you. We are deserving of each other."

Mikey felt his heart hammering as his eyes widened with the full realization hitting him of just what the situation was that he found himself in. 

 _Oh god._  He wasn't working with the Shredder. This guy was . . . his mind scattered as he tried to think of the right word . . .  _rogue_. No. This guy was nuts. Bonkers.  _Just my luck to get caught by a kook,_  he thought miserably.

Mikey tensed as the man twisted his hand and cupped his groin. He felt the warmth of Malcolm's hand heating through his lower plastron. It felt like the man was burning up with a fever or something. His breath hitched as Mal pressed with his fingertips on the delicate, sensitive flesh just beneath the protective edge of his plastron. So close to the protective pocket that kept his masculinity hidden from plain view. Mal edged his head down and took a closer look.

Stunned, Mikey's rigid body froze in disbelief and fear. "Wh-What are you – S-Stop!"

Mikey's face crushed into a horrified frown; a slick, uneasy feeling crawled through him, making his stomach clench and flutter. The situation was much worse than he first thought. This guy wasn't just nuts. He was insane and a predator! Mikey thought was a desperate jolt of terror.

Sweat continued to dribble down the back of his neck. Though Master Splinter had never talked directly to Mikey in any detail about what may happen to one of them if they were ever captured, he knew that he'd had those conversations with Leonardo and Raphael. They never told him more than he had to know, he understood it was their way of trying to protect him. But Mikey had watched enough television to have come across shows that Master Splinter may not have approved of. Shows that had police solving murder cases and chasing predators that preyed on children.

A thrill of terror raced up and down his spine and he trembled.

"G-Get offa me!" Mikey cried and shifted, doing his best to knock Malcolm away. He brought his left leg up but Malcolm used his shoulder to easily knock it back. For a moment no one moved except for Michelangelo's heaving chest as he panted.

Mal inched his empty eyes up until they locked on Mikey's. He continued to stare at him as his fingers slid down.

Mikey felt an ounce of relief that he'd passed his hidden opening, but that soon was replaced with fresh terror as he felt Malcolm's fingers continue to prod and press and explore lower, between his legs, nearer to his tail that was quivering in fear. Mikey tried to bring his legs together, but could only move the left one. Mal's grip on his right leg was iron-clad. His fingers bit deeply into his muscle as he held him in place.

"You're so soft under here," he said softly as he stroked Mikey's flesh. "Not as hard as I thought. I like it."

Mikey gasped as he felt Mal's fingers discover and then caress his tail. Malcolm made a hmm'ing sound in his throat and frowned. "I don't like this," he said to Mikey.

He gave the tail a tug and Mikey clenched his jaw as an electric pain shot up through his spine. He did his best not to cry out, but it hurt. Their tails were one of the most sensitive parts of their body besides the part they kept inside the pouch beneath their lower plastron.

"I'll have to do something about this later," he said ominously.

"L-Lemme go," Mikey demanded. "Y-You can't . . . do this!" he pleaded.

He felt Malcolm release his tail and for a fraction of a second, he was relieved. But then he felt prodding at the very base of his tail, between his bottom cheeks, near his rectum. He tensed as his body iced over with terror. Then, with a rough motion, the man cruelly penetrated his entrance by shoving the tip of his finger inside then jamming it all the way inside.

_"UGH! AAH!"_

With a frantic motion, Mikey brought his legs up, breaking out of Mal's grasp. He kicked out with all his desperate might. The room filled with his growl until the collar gagged him as his body jerked with the motion. His growl was strangled into a choking sound. The impact of the blow knocked Mal backwards off the mattress. He was on his feet in a second.

He reached down and fumbled with the young turtle's kicking legs until he grabbed Mikey by the ankles. With unexplainable strength Mal lifted Mikey up and off the mattress. He pulled on his legs until the collar was pressed flush into the front of his throat; choking Mikey.

Writhing and struggling to get free and to breathe, Mikey fought with everything he had. But it was no use. He couldn't fight in this position. He could only struggle and choke. His lungs burned with their need for oxygen. The pounding in his head and throbbing in his mouth escalated.

Then, as the edges of his vision grew dark, Malcolm released his legs, letting him fall back onto the mattress. He struggled to breathe, making long straining noises as he dragged air through his abused throat. Suddenly, Mikey felt Malcolm on top of him. Straddling him. His weight on his chest making it even harder to breathe.

In a soothing voice, Malcolm said, "Easy. Easy." He petted the side of Michelangelo's moist cheek. His tone took on a sing-song ring as he went on, "Now, you're going to behave yourself young man. I don't want to mark you up more than I was planning on. But I  _will_  do what you  _make_  me do. I  _will_  punish you when you're  _bad_. Understand?"

He patted Mikey's cheek as he gave the man a jerking nod with wide eyes. Malcolm's gray eyes rolled up to the ceiling. "Though I die a little when we're apart, I have to leave for now. I don't want that minx Karai getting any funny notions in her dim-witted little head of hers. I'll come back as soon as I can. But it may be a few days."

Mikey's heart gave a leap of hope. He was leaving. For a few days! It could be his chance to escape. Before he could internally celebrate the news, Malcolm brought his face down and smashed his mouth onto Mikey's.

_Oh god! What the hell!_

Michelangelo grimaced, lips pressed together tightly and tried to turn his head away, still coughing through his gritting teeth; making his cheeks puff out.

Malcolm slid his tongue across Michelangelo's lips; making Mikey shudder in revulsion. When the kiss was finished, Malcolm climbed off of Michelangelo's body. Slipping his hand behind him, he pulled from a pouch on his uniform belt, a set of keys. He jangled them, and selected one. He reached up and Mikey heard a brief screech, a pop and a clank of the chains as his arms fell back behind his head.

"There. You'll be more comfy this way while I'm gone."

Unsure if it was a trick, Mikey slowly brought his aching arms over his head and down to rest with the spacer bar across his chest. The collar still bit into his throat, but this was an improvement. He wished he could rub his tingling, numb hands together. But that wasn't going to happen thanks to the metal spacer bar between his wrists. He used his elbows to scoot back and sit up, bracing himself in the corner; heart still hammering with what he'd just been put through.

The word,  _assaulted_  flitted through his mind.  _He assaulted me_ , he thought with sorrow and anger. He felt tears building and he stubbornly refused to let them fall. There was no way this guy was going to see him cry. No freakin' way.

"When I come back we'll play some more." His face split into a huge grin. "We're going to have so much fun! I can't wait to give myself to you. I can't wait to fill you with my love. And I have so much love to give you. More than you ever had with those . . .  _brothers_ ," he spat the last word as if it made him sick to even think about Mikey's brothers. With that he spun on his heel, stooped to pick up his mask from the floor and skipped up the steps.

Mikey sat huddled in the corner of the room, shaken and trembling as silence fell all around him. In the distance through the small window, he thought he could hear the sound of Malcolm walking away; his boots crunching in the snow. As the sound faded and was replaced with a car's engine revving, and then fading away, he was left with the thundering sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

He had to stay calm.

He took in a steadying breath and blew it out slowly.  _At least the nut job is gone, that's a good thing_ , he thought optimistically.  _Okay. Think._  He had a few days to make his escape. A few days for his brothers to find him and rescue him. No. He wasn't even going to wait that long. He was going to get the hell out of here before they even had to find him, he thought with mock bravado and rose up on his knees.

But as he glanced around the gloom of the room and he lifted his aching arms to look more closely at the thick manacles around his wrists and the metal bar separating his hands, he felt his bravado slipping away. He sat back down, against the wall. The brief bout of optimism slipped out of his heart like a silk ribbon slipping from his fingers; replaced with a thick oppressive feeling of despair.

 _He assaulted me._ He blinked back the tears and steeled himself. _It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Think!_

He shook his arms and yanked back and forth at the metal spacer bar, the long chain connected to the manacles at this wrists rattled. He gazed at the links in the chain. If he were strong like his brother Raph, he could maybe, pull the links of the chains apart and get himself free. But Mikey knew there was no way he could manage such a feat.

He stared at the metal links and with one finger, awkwardly tugged at the edge of the collar around his neck with a groan. He dropped his arms down with a sigh. Unless he could chew through these chains, he had no way to get free. The thought of chewing brought a new notion to the forefront of his mind.

He frantically looked around the room. His eyes darting from one corner to the other to the edge of the mattress. Nothing. There was nothing.

Malcolm didn't leave him anything to eat. He said he would be gone for a couple of days and there was nothing to eat! The very thought made his traitorous stomach growl and his evil mind conjured thoughts of the big breakfast he had planned for his family this morning. Plates of steaming pancakes and crisp browned bacon drifted in his mind's eye.

He clenched his eyes closed tightly.  _Stop torturing yourself, dumbass!_  Pull it together! He had to be stronger than this!

"But what if . . . I'm not strong," he whispered to himself morosely, the words hitching in his suddenly too tight throat.

Malcolm's earlier words drifted through his mind like a half-remembered nightmare, _'You're not as smart as your brothers. Not as strong.'_

Blinking back the burning tears that blurred his vision, his eyes rose to the window above him. The morning's light was his only comfort as he settled deeper into the corner, shivering with the cold, fighting off the feelings of panic and despair clawing at the edges of his heart.

"Hurry up and find me, guys."


	4. Red like Wine, Black like Blood

Leonardo woke early to the unusual string of curse words from Donatello as he marched past his bedroom door.

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, reached up and pulled his mask from the peg on the wall where he hung it before bed every night and tied it on. Stretching his arms up over his head and popping his neck first to the left then the right, he stepped out of his room. He watched Donatello as he pounded on Michelangelo's door. Head down, Donatello crossed his arms as his toes tapped impatiently.

"What he do this time?" Leo asked him, a knowing smile spread over his face, as he moved past towards the kitchen.

"Do you really want me to list the myriad of things that I found covered in sticky fingerprints," Don asked over his shoulder with a growl. "He had his head in that bowl of kettle corn and goobers yesterday when he asked if he could borrow the tiny screwdriver for the remote again."

Then he turned back to his brother's door. "I know you're awake, goofball, I can see your light is on."

Leo emerged from the kitchen, a box of cereal in his hand. "He'll come out if you stop banging on the door and scaring the crap out of him. Besides, you'll need some caffeine before you try to get ahold of him." Leo chuckled as he reached in the box and pulled a handful of crisp cereal and dropped it into his open mouth. Mouth full and crunching, he added to Don's blank look, "What? He's fast."

Don's shoulders slumped. "Ah, you're right. He'd probably dart out like the little skunk he is and slip out of the lair before I could catch him." He gave the door one more glare and said, "I'll be out here waiting for an apology. Not to mention a bucket and rag for you to clean up everything you touched with those sticky fingers." He moved towards the kitchen and said over his shoulder for emphasis, "I do mean everything, Mikey."

Leo tipped the box and filled a bowl before passing it to his brother's seat. Donatello was pouring coffee grounds into the filter as he asked, "So, what happened last night. I got home and stayed up waiting for you three but you never showed. Not that you care, but I wanted to show you the technological goodies I unearthed at the junk yard last night. It was worth going out. Like I told you."

Leonardo's shoulders tightened ever so slightly. "Wait . . . Hold on. You mean me and Raph?"

Donatello frowned and leaned on the counter, crossing his arms. "No, I mean, you, Raph and Mr. Sticky Fingers."

Leonardo set the box of cereal down slowly on the table. He twisted to look at Mikey's bedroom door. A sinking feeling pulled at his stomach as his knees grew weak. He took two steps when Raphael burst into the lair. He froze and his face darted towards Raph. He blinked and his mouth hung open a moment as he realized his brother had been out  _all night_.

"Where the hell have you been?" Leo asked, momentarily distracted from his unease.

"Well, good morning to you, too, Chief," Raph said with a wink in his direction.

Leo snapped his mouth shut and looked from Raph to Don, who huffed and gave his head a shake, and back again. Raph was in an unusually cheerful mood. He couldn't help but wonder what had brought it on. Since they had left things unsettled between them, he had figured Raph would be in a foul state this morning. At least, he thought he'd still be peeved at him. He never expected his brother to be . . . cheerful.

Raph unwrapped his scarf, balled it into a knot and tossed it into a pile of their outer wear near the entrance. He breezed past Donatello, humming, and swung open the refrigerator, sticking his head in deep and retrieving a carton of orange juice. He flicked it open and guzzled the liquid down. He wiped his chin and bottom lip and grinned at Donatello whose eyes flicked from the clock on the wall to his brother and then to Leo, who stood with fists clenched and a darkening countenance, before he ducked his head and cradling his coffee cup in two hands slid from the kitchen.

He mumbled, "It's too early to deal with this nonsense." He passed by Leonardo and said, "Might I remind you that Master Splinter is still asleep." He patted Leonardo's arm and retreated to his lab.

"Where's the bonehead at? I was hopin' ta get some of those pancakes he was yammerin' on about making yesterday." He poked around the sink and opened a few cabinets, looking inside and grunting when he found no pancakes hidden within. "You guys didn't eat them all before I got here, did you?"

Leonardo moved into the kitchen. "He's not up yet. Raph . . .  _Raphael,"_ he snapped to get his brother's attention and grabbed Raphael's arm, twisting him around.

As Raphael turned a scent hit Leonardo. Lavender soap. It took him off guard and he lost his train of thought.

He blinked hard, "You . . . shower somewhere?"

Raph pushed Leo's arm away with deliberate care. Raph looked him in the eye. There was a superior glint written across his amber eyes. Not one of anger or defiance. No, this was something different. It made Leo feel strangely vulnerable and he involuntarily swallowed.

"That – is none of your business." He gently popped Leonardo at the end of his snout with the back of his finger and walked into the living room.

For a moment Leonardo was too stunned to move. His simmering anger at his brother's defiance and arrogant, flippant behavior this morning vanished. Replaced with a stunned, frozen terror. Because when his brother flicked his nose . . . he caught another scent along his brother's digits hidden just beneath the soap. One that was nearly undoubtable in its clarity in his mind. A woody scent mixed with the distinct sharp smell of cherry blossoms. Unmistakable. But there was a musky undertone that he could only hope with bleak denial was not what he  _thought_  it was.

" _Raph_ ," he croaked and cleared his throat.

Raph turned and raised his brows. He looked at him with sleepy expectation.

He clenched and unclenched his suddenly clammy fists. He didn't want to know. But he had to find out. But he really didn't want to know.

His throat worked as the question that needed to be asked bounced and ricocheted inside his mind like a bullet shot wildly into the air. What he was afraid of was ridiculous, he had nothing to worry about. He chided himself for jumping to such outrageous conclusions. Karai and . . . he couldn't even think the sentence through.

He turned his head to one side, staring at the floor as he struggled. He didn't want to ask. But he had to. As leader of their clan he was responsible for the actions and whereabouts of his brothers at all times. The knowledge and subsequent actions he would have to take were his to bear alone. He had to learn what his brother had done with the long hours of the night before; while he was on his own and out from under the watchful guidance of his older brother and leader. He had to know where Raphael had gone -  _to_   _Karai_ , his wretched mind whispered - and who he was with - _Karai._

_The woman you trusted. The woman you've fallen in love with. My brother . . ._

He pinched his eyes closed against the pain that was threatening to overwhelm and took in a steadying breath. There was no proof of that, he argued with himself. It was only his fear talking; tricking his mind to believe something that just could not be true. For despite never having voiced his feelings to any of his brothers, surely Raphael had guessed that he was starting to grow more than a little fond of the dangerous kunoichi.

After what he implied last night on the roof . . . the fight! Maybe Raph smelled of Karai from his fight with her. A spark of hope ignited in his chest, but was quickly extinguished as the memory of that distinctive scent of musk on his brother's fingertips came back to him.

The female human gave off a certain scent when fully aroused. Not that he was an expert. He had really only gotten a wiff of it once, only a few days ago when he had met Karai in a particularly odd and playful mood.

. . .

He had been nervous to meet with her again. The last time he responded to one of her messages, he ended up in a sparring match with his shoulder nicked and a few new scars along the back of one hand and forearm. Despite being shallow and thin, they represented something greater than just a battle slip up or a block not quite as clean as he had hoped. They represented his growing dependency on seeing her, even if it meant only to fight with her. Only to add to more of his collection of scars.

He yearned for her more and more and it was a frightening feeling. It felt like he was losing control of something important. It felt like drowning. It felt like falling. And he was falling fast and hard.

She had him pacing the roof of an abandoned apartment building. Agitated and nervous. Anxious and hopeful. But hopeful of what exactly, he had no idea.

He had come at the instructed time only to find the space clear and no sign of life anywhere in the vicinity. The neighborhood was like an evacuated war zone. In the distance, a train whistle blew and he counted the seconds between each lonesome wail. He was about to leave, disheartened and disappointed, when she emerged from the roof access shed, clad in only a long, fur-trimmed robe.

"Well, are you going to stand out here freezing your tail off or are you coming inside?" she asked and stepped aside to allow him access.

Without a word, only a wide-eyed glance at her, he crossed the roof and slid inside. He followed her down the narrow stairs, fearful that he was being led into a trap, but unable to stop himself from following her like a shadow lusting for its physical counterpart. They passed several apartment entrances with gaping doorways or busted doors hanging on the frame by rusted hinges until they came to a door that was intact. She twisted the knob and stopped, making him nearly bump into her in his haste to follow inside, before he caught himself and took a half-step back.

"Careful," she purred.

He swallowed and tensed. Was she warning him? Giving him a chance to bolt?

Rigidly he stepped behind her and entered the room. Part of his mind was screaming at him that this was in no part a good idea. But before he took another step, he stopped abruptly to let his mind process what he saw.

The apartment was bare except for a large plush blanket strewn across the middle of the floor. Next to it were two wine glasses, a bottle of wine, a plate with grapes and dried fruit along with a white rose. On the other side of the blanket were three tall candle sticks. White candles were placed inside each and the yellow flame flickered as Karai moved around them.

"What is this? A trap?" Leo asked and immediately cringed, hearing how stupid he sounded in his own ears. It was obviously not a trap.

"A trap? Hm, guess again, Leonardo."

He gulped as his name rolled along her tongue and languished in the sweet sound of her voice. "Are you surprised?" She turned her head a little and narrowed her eyes with a half-smile. "Well just wait," she said and his eyes snapped to her.

She slowly pulled the robe open and let it slide down the length of her body, her hands placed in front of her; fingers splayed across her belly.

Leo watched it's trajectory with a heart that galloped and his breath became shallow and heavy. She was in a slip of a gauzy gown. The hem just brushed the tops of her milky white thighs. The top dipped low between her breasts and the edges were lacey as they reached up and connected to two thin straps that went over her bare shoulders.

His eyes raked over her form; devouring the sight before him. A tremor went through him and he found himself trembling and unable to stop.

Suddenly, he felt clumsy and overly large. His hands didn't seem to know where to go and his knees bumped into each other as he took a half-step forward. He blinked several times and looked everywhere but at her; feeling his face burn fiercely. Afraid that if he looked at her again, he'd never be able to tear his gaze away.

Finding his voice as well as his dignity he said, "I don't know what you think you're doing –"

"I think I'm having fun," she said and moved to lay along her right thigh. She reached out and poured a glass of wine. "At least, I'm trying to. Being part of the Foot clan is boring, Leo. With a capital 'B'. Can't a girl get out and enjoy herself." She poured the other glass and held it out to him. "Have some?"

"Having fun?" his voice was hoarse.

Didn't she know what this was doing to him? Didn't she care? Anger flared bright and hot within him. Before he realized it, he was on his knees, knocking the glass from her grip. The wine sprayed across the wooden floor; painting it in a wide arc of deep maroon. He was on top of her, gripping her by the arms. Her face was crushed into a look of shock and fury.

"Having fun?" he repeated and gave her a little shake. "When are the soldiers coming? Huh, Karai?" he growled from between gritted teeth. "When will you spring the dozens of ninja on me? When I'm close to you? When I'm drunk? Maybe you'll let me kiss you and then signal them. Is that it?" His eyes, wild and stormy with a mix of outrage, despair and need bounced between hers.

 _"Answer me!"_ he screamed in her face.

"N-No!" she yelled and her voice wavered. There was a pause as they stared into each other's eyes. "I-I have no plans," she panted, "like that. Not now. Not for tonight. Not for you."

He huffed and slowly eased his grip on her arms, noticing from the corner of his eye, the dark marks his fingers had left and feeling sudden regret. Sudden exhaustion and sadness. He just wanted to go home.

He turned to move to leave when her arms went around his neck. Surprised, he turned his face in time for her lips to meet his. The breath rushed from his lungs as Karai kissed him. Deeply. With a hunger he only understood on the most primal of levels.

They broke apart.

Her scent wafted over him. Woody and sweet. Forests and cherry blossoms. Exotic and mouthwatering. Breathing in soft panting gasps, he searched her eyes gazing up at him and blinked in disbelief. There was something in her eyes that spoke to him of a need, a yearning that matched his. There was no doubt. But there was something else, as well. Something deeper. A joyful look that he could only associate the word,  _love_ , to. He tipped his head and gingerly, he kissed her jawline, moving down to the side of her throat, down to lap at her collarbone.

 _"Karai . . ."_ he rumbled softly into her neck.

He felt her tremble and a new scent reached him. The heavier, musky scent spoke of only one thing.  _Desire_.

. . .

Leonardo raised his glassy eyes up to his brother, keeping his head low; a defensive posture he could not bring himself to hide. All his control and strength was reserved to keeping himself upright and composed. His face neutral.

"Where were you last night?" he asked and was proud that he was able to keep his voice level and authoritative.

A slow smirk spread over Raph's face.

Leonardo straightened up even as his shoulders slumped. His heart sank and his stomach twisted as his mouth slowly opened in silent denial.

Raphael's eyes narrowed and he tipped his head a little as he replied, "Wouldn't you like ta know." With that he turned his shell to Leonardo and fell into the sofa with a satisfied groan; flicking on the television. "Tell Mikey I'll take those pancakes whenever he gets up off his lazy ass."

Leo stood frozen in place, heart beating as if it wanted to escape from his chest. He felt dizzy and all at once hot and cold. His breath was a tight knot caught in the center of his burning throat.  _It isn't true._  She . . . she wouldn't . . . she . . . His mind blanked as he ran a palm over his face. Was the room this cold all morning? Was it always tipping to the side?

"Good morning my sons," Splinter said with warm cheer as he emerged from his room. "I hope you are all well rested from the night before."

"I dunno about rested, but I sure feel _good_ , Sensei," Raph said, rubbing the back of his neck and chuckling with wicked glee.

And Leonardo's world went red as his eyes went white with wild rage.

# # #

Karai moved through the wide tiled room. The heels of her boots clacked with each forceful step she took. Several men bowed deeply as she passed. One came up to her side and handed her a file.

"The shipment went as planned, Mistress. Your father is greatly pleased."

Karai stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "Very good." She moved and handed the file to another of her lacky's and turned to leave, heading for her personal quarters to shower and find a garment that would more effectively hide the various bruises and bite marks that lined the side of her neck and shoulders. She shifted and grimaced a little feeling the tenderness in more than just her back and between her breasts.

The soldier was still there. Despite the mask covering his face, Karai could tell he was hesitating about something and needed to talk. "What? Don't just stand there, spit it out."

"Uhm, right, Mistress. I apologize. I do not mean to cause dissent among our ranks. Nor do I intend to cause any sort of –"

Karai snapped, impatient and longing for her shower, "What is it?!"

"M-Malcolm. Malcolm Sengrindt. H-He went off on his own again. Last night when you ordered us back. H-He did not return. Erin thought he saw him drive off in a truck, towards the east side docks. We think he's been going to the mansion near the graveyard."

This time Karai did roll her eyes. Not this again.

Malcolm. The Foot soldier obsessed with tracking the turtles and his non-stop muttering to himself.

On more than one occasion Karai had to send out men to track him down and bring him back to headquarters when he'd gone AWOL. He'd adamantly fought against the accusation that he'd been working with another clan - understandably so, if caught, it would mean death - admitting only that he was doing his own side research on the mutant turtles that somehow would be of use to the Foot clan once he was done.

Even under light torture, it remained the consensus that he really was just caught up in something regarding catching the turtles or one of them, Karai wasn't sure. If he'd really come up with something of use for the clan through these efforts, Karai highly doubted it. For the most part, she had ignored his strange lapses. That is until the men would start to complain. Then it was up to her to act out her role as leader.

Malcolm was odd and not very bright. She chalked it up to him having a natural curiosity coupled with a fixation on the mutants. Not every person had a chance to learn there were such creatures living among them. It was natural for him and others to be curious. She didn't blame him, not really. The problem was that he was constantly losing track of his orders. And thus she had to punish him, often. No wonder he was assigned to her division. Her father probably thought it was an excellent way to develop her lacking heartlessness and cruelty.

She ran a hand across her forehead and sighed in exasperation. What was she going to do with him? She didn't want to have to have him tortured. Not again. The fool was a babbling idiot as it was.

Then again, she could have him whipped, but just a few lashes. That should satisfy everyone. As she opened her mouth to give the order, the soldier before her straightened up and Karai twisted to see the man in question walking up to them, pulling his mask over his head.

"Good morning," he mumbled and bowed. "I am sorry I was late. Please forgive me, _Mistress_."

She narrowed her eyes at his tone. She didn't care for the way he referred to her title. Karai would have just let the whole thing go, but she was in a bad mood. Raphael was particularly rough last night and after the overly harsh encounter with him on the roof, she was feeling just about fed up with everyone. She just wanted peace.

Unbidden, Leonardo's face popped into her mind. She blinked at the image, taken aback. Her cheeks flushed and she cleared her throat as she adjusted her uniform.

"I understand you went missing again last night, Malcolm," she said.

Malcolm's masked face shot up. It darted to the man before her then dropped. He bowed again this time lower.

"N-No. I-I mean, yes, Mistress. I-I had thought I-I had seen one of the turtles and I h-had to check it out," he stammered out.

Karai could see him shaking and she shook her head in disgust. She turned to the soldier in front of her. "Ten lashes. This morning. Be quick."

"N-No!" Malcolm cried out and grabbed her by the arm. The other soldier tensed. "P-Please! I-I am sorry, Mistress! It wasn't my fault! I had to go! I _had_ to! It was my only chance!"

Karai frowned. Then she glanced down at her arm. He released his fingers with a start as if just realizing he was touching her.

"I . . . I . . .  _forgive me, Mistress_ ," he whispered in a tone of horror.

Karai gritted her teeth. "For touching me, give him five more." With that she turned away from the sniveling mess that pretended to be a man and stormed away. The turtle she held in her trembling arms last night was more of a man than this pile of wretched garbage.

# # #

He tried to think of someplace happy. Someplace warm and safe and secure. Where he could have what he wanted without fear. Without judgment. He struggled to think of anything good as fear and terror turned his bowels to ice water.

The whip lashed out and Malcolm screamed. " _Mercy_!" he shrieked. "M-Mercy!  _Mercy_!"

The crack cut through the air. Breaking through the agonized gasping and whimpering coming from Malcolm where he was chained to the whipping pole in the cell reserved for disciplinary actions and the occasional prisoner from the other clans and gangs. The soldier holding the whip handed it to his partner.

"What a baby," he muttered.

"How many is he getting?'

"Fifteen. Total."

" _Tch_." The man shook his head, "Pathetic. I took fifteen before I made a  _sound_."

The other one nodded in agreement and brought his arm around before snapping the whip across Malcolm's writhing back.

Whining and whimpering, Malcolm sobbed loudly. Desperately, he pictured Mikey as he left him. Sitting on the mattress, looking so sweet and sad. No, not sad. A flash of dark rage swept through him.

It was _his_ fault he was being punished. His fault that he was suffering and bleeding.

Malcolm's stomach roiled. He choked back the vomit. He hated vomiting. He wouldn't allow it. Malcolm focused. This is  _his_ fault. So Mikey  _had_  to make this up to him. Mikey  _had_  to. So, no. Not sad. He'll be sweet and  _ready_  for him. Yes. Ready for his love.

He thought of how tight he felt around his finger and a spike of arousal slid through the pain. He thought of how Mikey's body tensed with fright as he jabbed his finger into him.

Through his tears and running snot, Malcolm managed a weak smile. He couldn't help it. He had to have a little taste of what he was going to get. A giggle bubbled up and choked free. Now he just had to make it through this terrible pain.

Mikey was waiting for him. He would be there when he returned. Some strength came to Malcolm then. Yes, Mikey would take his pain away. He would soothe his wounds and take care of him.

 _"Mikey, Mikey,"_  he whispered it like a mantra. Like a prayer.

The Foot soldier commented, "He's a bleeder, too."

"Filthy pig. What is he mumbling?"

The other shrugged.

"Give him a few more for being such a whimpering little pig."

Their laughter was punctuated with the wicked crack of the leather coil ripping through flesh and the wailing sob of their comrade.


	5. Acquiescence

_"Love me. You have destroyed everything! But if you love me, it can all be restored in a new form. Love me."_ -Anne Rice

* * *

 

 

Donatello heard the crash and brushed it off. 

Then he heard the snarl and he jumped to his feet so quickly the chair clattered backwards to the floor, wheels spinning as he dashed from his lab. The protective goggles still covering his eyes, the heavy metal-working gloves on his hands, covering his arms up to his elbows. His head turned left and right as he ran into the living room.

Master Splinter was there, standing in the center of the room, both his hands were raised over his head in a placating gesture. He was speaking loudly in Japanese and over the growling and grunting and screaming of his apparently insane brothers, Donatello caught the string of rare curse words. They flew from his mouth as the old rat leapt out of the way just as a mass of rolling, coiling flesh and shell nearly barreled into him.

Leonardo's voice, marred by his growling, reached him. He was screaming obscenities at Raphael between punches clumsy with rage while Raphael matched the insults with uglier retorts and vicious cracks with his fists that were much more accurate. Donatello had no idea what this was all about. Leonardo had never lost his composure to this level before. Nor was he so easily bested by Raphael. His attack was sloppy and uncoordinated and he had an anguished expression that Don didn't understand the source of. But he understood both his brothers were more than a little pissed at each other. They were enraged.

They were going to kill each other from the looks of things.

"Raph! Leo!" Don yelled, knowing there was no reaching them at this point. They were lost in the haze of battle, both their eyes were narrowed and white.

Shaking his hands until the gloves flew free, and ripping the goggles from his head, he did what he knew he had to do in this case. He leapt onto the wide shell of the one on top, at this point it was Raphael, unfortunately for Don. As he grabbed the rim of his brother's shell and yanked, an elbow came up and struck him square in the snout.

Stars exploded across his vision and he staggered back clutching his face. Between clenched teeth he swore and tried again. This time, he snagged Raphael's thick arm just as it reared back, cocked for another vicious blow aimed for the mess of swollen and bloody tissue that was Leonardo's face.

With haste, Don twisted the arm back, using both his hands to secure the grip around the bunched muscles, straining with everything he had just to be able to restrain him. He dipped and twisted at the join of his brother's wrist and managed to get it into a lock. A lock that should have had immobilized Raphael. But Raphael was like a tank and apparently when he was this worked up, he was more likely to break his own bones than allow himself to be restrained. He bucked and twisted and writhed in Donatello's hold.

A fist came around somehow, thrown at Don's face. Donatello's eyes widened and his head lurched back just in time. He missed but not entirely. Raph's knuckles caught him just at the bottom of his chin and again he was forced back onto his bottom. Warm arms caught him and he struggled for a moment before realizing that Master Splinter had broken his fall. He felt his father drag him back a bit, further away from the fighting pair.

"My son," Splinter started in a breathless voice, "Do you know what this is about?"

Donatello rubbed his aching chin and said from between gritted teeth, "All I know is that Raph came home late and Leo seemed particularly pissed about it." He glanced up at Splinter, "Uh, I mean, he was pretty mad."

"I see." Splinter set him down with care and moved around him.

"Uh, Master Splinter," Don said as he watched his father creeping closer to his snarling brothers wrestling on the floor.

In a smooth motion, Splinter slipped between the two. Head down, ears flat, he pried Leonardo off of Raphael and with a spin kick squarely into his son's chest, rocked him backwards across the floor. He turned his face just as Raphael's fist came up. He caught the meaty, bloody fist and turned it away with graceful ease. The next blow landed, just as Leonardo loomed behind, clutching at his chest with a hand that was covered in his brother's blood. Master Splinter's head snapped to the side and his body followed.

The reaction was instantaneous. Raphael clambered to his hands and knees and Leonardo scrambled to fall besides his injured father.

"Master!"

"Splinter! Fuck oh, oh  _fuck_! I-I'm sorry!"

With the help of several bruised and bloodied hands, Splinter sat up. He placed a claw on the side of his mouth. A dribble of blood trickled down the front of his mussed and wrinkled robe.

Donatello appeared with an ice pack and shot both his brothers a look that made them both recoil as he helped Splinter to stand.

"I-I . . ."

"Master, we . . ."

Donatello helped Splinter into a seat in the kitchen. He swept the broken remains of his father's shattered mug away so he could lean his elbow on the table and brace the ice pack to his Sensei's cheek. Master Splinter patted Donatello's hand in thanks.

Raphael and Leonardo, chests heaving, dripping with gore and sweat and foam staggered into the kitchen and hovered around them. Leonardo's mask was torn and hung over his collar bone, Raphael's mask was gone. Each had swollen cheeks and both had one eye swollen and blackened. They would not meet each other's eyes, instead they stared at Splinter, a look of remorse and regret painted their expressions beneath the grim coating of blood and bruises.

Master Splinter took in a shuddering breath, then another, this one calmer. Donatello straightened where he sat and glared at them both in turn. His fury was an iceberg cutting across the room and slamming into them.

"I-I'm so sorry, Masta'," Raphael said thickly from between swollen lips.

Master Splinter held up one claw to silence him.

"This behavior."

He closed his eyes. The two of them. Always this way. Always at each other's throats the second he turned his back. If one wasn't instigating and acting defiantly the other was critical and oppressive until they attacked each other. It had been this way with them since they were but small children. The competitiveness between them could not be extinguished. No matter how evenly he distributed the praise, no matter how hard he tried to show them he loved them each in turn the same. It did nothing to quell the rift between Raphael and Leonardo. He had hoped that throughout their training and with age, it would lessen, but to his deep disappointment, it seemed to only grow with their adolescence and growth into young adulthood.

He looked from one son to the other, they each dropped their battered faces to the floor.

"I am  _most_  disappointed –"

His voice cut off. It hurt to speak. He felt the cut in his mouth and the swelling flesh with his tongue. His son should have controlled himself. Both of them were trained ninja, seven to eight hours a day training since they were barely walking and this was his result. Two boys who behave like unruly animals. A tremor of fury went through him.

But who was to blame for this? If the student is a poor one, look to the teacher.

He felt the anger at his boys turn to disappointment in himself then morph into weariness that made his shoulders sag. It weighed on him and the well-known sense of melancholy dread threatened to overtake him. He needed the one who pulled him away from this temptation to fall into the all too familiar depression. The depression that he had struggled with ever since he'd been mutated into a rat all those years ago. The sunny disposition and warm attitude of his youngest.

He looked up and glanced around, past his sons. "Where is your brother?"

The unexpected question had the three of them looking at each other in blatant confusion. The cold fury fled from Donatello's face, replaced with the silent question aimed at Raph and Leo who returned the question without a word.

Then as each realized who Master Splinter was referring to, one by one, all gazes turned towards Michelangelo's bedroom door.

# # #

The night had passed with Michelangelo doing his best to stop himself from shivering. He was so cold.

The damp air seeped through the window and seemed to settle along his bare limbs and sink inside, chilling his very bones. He couldn't even wrap his arms around himself due to the spacer bar between the cuffs at this wrist. He could only keep his arms bent tightly against his sides, numb hands curled up under the sides of his cheeks. The metal of the collar chilled him further. He had squeezed as tightly as he could into the corner, hoping that maybe being as small as possible, his own body heat would somehow transfer to the stone wall and keep him warm. His knees were bent and his toes were curled tight, one foot over the other.

He had tried to pull on the chain keeping him secured to the wall by the collar around his throat. It gave him just enough room to lay down if he wanted to and reach the very edge of the mattress, but the collar would yank on his throat and make him gag if he went too far.

In the middle of the night, sick and tired of being unable to even get comfortable enough to try to sleep, he had braced his feet against the wall for leverage. This was it. He was getting out of there. 

He had pulled and struggled in the darkness, first with one hand until it became raw and sore and then the other; gaining no progress only exhausting himself in the process. At one point he yanked so hard, his hand, slick with sweat and grime, slipped and he fell roughly onto his shell. The collar slammed into his neck and bottom of his jaw. Pain lanced upwards through his face and head. 

He choked and then burst into tears.

As the memory of his outburst of weakness flooded through his mind, shame filled him. With a sniff, he wiped the last remaining traces of his tears from his cheeks, smearing the dirt from his hand onto his face. As the morning's gray light of dawn filtered through the narrow window above him, he stared at the rough stone surface in front of his face; teeth chattering. He shifted his legs and felt the fullness of his bladder demanding relief. The feel of Malcolm's hands on him returned with a vengeance. He pinched his eyes closed. 

 _No. I won't think about that_ , he thought and trembled once. He unfolded his legs and shifted a little more hoping the change in position would help ease the pressure in his lower abdomen. It did not help. If anything, he only felt like he had to go even more.

"Great," he mumbled.

He turned his head and looked around. There was nothing he could use, he realized with sinking dread.

"I'll just hold it 'til they rescue me," he said aloud, taking some comfort from the sound of his own voice in the empty room.

Besides the cold and the darkness, he felt the stillness like a mocking presence. He missed the activity of the lair. The voices of the actors playing out the drama of Master Splinter's stories on television. Splinter's chuckle at the absurdity of the escalating situations and his commentary over sips of his tea. He missed the sounds of Donatello working in his lab, the noise of the torches and mechanical sounds of cranks and gears being worked on. He missed Raphael's rough laughter and crude jokes; the sound of the punching bag taking on his brother's pent up aggression. He missed Leonardo's soft commanding voice as they moved through their morning practice session. The gentle encouragement he offered as Mikey messed up his form.

Michelangelo's stomach suddenly growled loudly, making him jump.

"Geez," he said with a small huff of a laugh. "I'm starving."

He glanced around the room, again. The dim light was growing, illuminating the dreary room. His eyes drifting over the metal chains, the cuffs and the long horizontal bar hanging from the ceiling. The large bag behind the stairs where Malcolm had dropped it along with the hose. He wondered what it was for. His empty stomach rolled with renewed dread.

Unconsciously, both out of fear and hunger, he nibbled on the knuckle of one finger, sucking at the salty taste of his own digit. His mouth was dry and caked with the taste of old blood. He was thirsty, too, he realized and tried to remember how long Malcolm said he'd be gone. Then with a bolt of fright he recalled hearing something about people dying of thirst long before they'd die of hunger.

He moved out of the corner and sat on his knees. He tugged at the collar around his parched throat. He twisted and reached up to grip the chain connecting him to the wall. He wrapped his fingers around the cool metal and hissed a little in pain. His hand was raw. But he pushed past the pain and started to pull again.

He couldn't give up. He just couldn't. What would Raph think if he gave up after just being caught for a single day? Leonardo would be very disappointed. Donatello would say it only confirmed his suspicion of Mikey being the weakest of the four of them. He pulled harder, getting angry. A soft growl rose up out of him.

"I – am – not – the – weakest!" he grunted out between gritted teeth with each tug. Then he switched hands and tried again. The chain rattled and snapped with each pull, giving him no headway, only tearing into his raw burning palms.

# # #

"Mikey!" Donatello called and banged on the door. He glanced at his brother's faces in helplessness and heart-pounding dread.

"You said he never came home last night," Leo said and wiped at his eye with a bloody rag.

Donatello nodded.

"What the fuck, Donnie?" Raphael's angry voice came from the other side of him. He spun around to face him.

"Excuse me?" Donatello snapped. "How exactly is this my fault?!"

"Why the hell didn't you say somethin'?!"

Leo pushed Donatello to one side and got into Raphael's face, "If you would've gone home with him this wouldn't have happened," he shouted and Raphael bristled.

His hands curled into fists and his growl rose up, menacingly.

"Enough!" Master Splinter shouted and pushed between them. He leaned back and with a swift push kick, knocked in Michelangelo's door.

The four of them stood at the threshold for a moment gazing in.

They held their collective breath, each one hoping that this was an elaborate prank being pulled on them from the youngest, but knowing it was not the case. Just not wanting to believe that they could have somehow lost track of one of their own so easily for so long. The room was a mess of comics, spare pieces of gear and empty boxes of food.

Master Splinter stepped into the room and gazed about. On the nightstand, the small cracked lamp was still on from the last time the boy had forgotten to switch it off before he left the room. Something that he was prone to doing. On his desk were several scattered pages of sketches and drawings.

Master Splinter picked one up and looked at it. It was a rough sketch of the Brooklyn Bridge, rendered with loving detail that only Michelangelo was graced with being able to notice. The light from the setting sun caused the water beneath to sparkle and even the bridge itself seemed firm and strong, unrelenting in its purpose.

Splinter set it back down and turned to his remaining sons. They exchanged looks for a moment and then burst into activity. Donatello ran from the room closely followed by Leonardo and Raphael. They called out to him as they scattered throughout the lair. Donnie ran into his room and stuck his head inside.

"Mikey?"

Raphael dashed through the lair to the garage, he pulled open the door and hollered, "Mikey!? Bro, you in here?"

Leonardo rushed into the dojo, "Michelangelo!"

A few minutes later they rushed back into the middle of the living room; eyes wild with barely concealed panic.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Donatello shook his head. "I-It was after you hit Raph with the snowball, I just walked by him and continued home. I had no idea he wasn't coming along with you two."

Leonardo and Raphael exchanged looks. This was on them, then. Guilt stabbed Leonardo and Raphael's face dropped.

"I told 'em to get home . . . right before I followed you," he mumbled to the floor.

Leonardo clenched his jaw but held his tongue.

"Well, did you see anything before you chased after Leo?" Don asked. Raph shook his head.

"There were Foot soldiers," Leonardo said as Master Splinter came up to the three of them. Leonardo closed his eyes and opened them slowly going on, "Karai was tailing us from the junk yard." From the corner of his eye, he saw Donatello duck his head in regret, rubbing his arm. He noticed Raphael tense. "When I went back to . . . confront her, she had ordered them to back down."

"Wait a minute," Raph broke in. "You're telling me that you knew Karai and her goons were following us and didn't do nothin' or say nothin' that entire  _time_?" His uninjured eye flashed as he frowned.

Master Splinter looked to Leonardo who looked like he had swallowed something bitter tasting. He nodded once.

Splinter made a small intake of breath, frowning deeply. "Why is that, Leonardo?"

"Yeah," Raphael barked. "Why  _is_  that?" he repeated with a sharp shake of his head.

Leonardo stared at Raphael, saying nothing, breathing heavy. Raphael didn't know. His stomach roiled. Karai was playing them. Both of them. Yet that did not excuse Raphael from what he'd done. Leonardo was sure his brother knew he had some feelings for the kunoichi and still he'd been with her. Though Raphael had yet to admit it aloud.

"Leonardo! Answer!" Master Splinter said and Donatello and Raphael stared at him, waiting.

"I-I . . . I had hoped . . . t-to speak with her alone," he managed to stutter out. Beneath his bruises, his face reddened deeply.

Master Splinter, understanding immediately, made a disgusted noise and looked away.

Leonardo dropped his head in shame. While Raphael continued staring at him uncomprehendingly. His bottom lip, hung open, bruised and still dripping blood onto his chest.

Donatello's face bounced between the two of them and with a slowly growing horrified look on his face, the brainy turtle pieced together the heart of the problem. He dropped his head into his hands. "You have to be kidding me," he muttered.

"What do ya mean, you hoped ta speak to her  _alone_?" Raph asked, remembering Leo ordering him to go home.

An awful thought was taking root in the back of his mind regarding Leonardo and Karai. Suddenly he was hit with the reason why his brother was so pissed that he had attacked him for staying out all night. Did Leo still have a puppy-love crush on the kunoichi? That was _years_ ago.

He swallowed some of the blood still pooling in his mouth. The bitter taste of his own blood mixed with the sour feeling that he was being lied to. Was she giving Leo a reason to keep that fire burning? There was no way that Karai would waste her time with his boring, straight-laced brother. No fucking way. But it would explain Leonardo's explosion moments ago. It would explain the crazed look of hurt on his face when he was trying to hit him.

Donatello dropped his hand and hollered, "It doesn't matter right now! We have to go looking for Mikey." He turned and moved to fetch his bo.

Raphael stared at Leonardo as he dropped his gaze away. "He's right. It . . . It isn't important now."

"Answer me," Raphael growled and took a step towards Leonardo. The thought of Leo going after what was his suddenly made the earlier fury rise up again. This time blazing hotter than before now that he had fuel to feed it. But even in his haze of anger, he knew that Master Splinter could never know what he was doing with Karai. Just his reaction to Leo wanting time alone with her told him to keep it a secret no matter what.

Still, he wanted answers from his supposedly angelic older brother. Mr. Perfect needed to explain a little clearer, "What are you doin' with Karai, behind our backs, huh, Fearless?"

Leonardo's face snapped up and he curled his cracked lip back to reveal an incisor. The nerve of his brother's statement infuriated him. But he knew it was just Raphael realizing he may finally have a real reason to be jealous of his older brother.

But Leonardo wasn't up to taking the bait. His head was pounding and swimming. His heart was sinking and twisting at his father's wordless comment on his behavior, cutting him deeper than any of the wounds Raphael's fists had inflicted moments ago.

He growled and pushed his chest against Raphael, bringing his face an inch away from his brother's, "Back . . . off."

Master Splinter's shouted in Japanese as his cane came up from behind, cracking Leonardo hard against the back of his head. With a yelp, he fell away from Raphael. Wincing, he cowered and held his pounding head between two hands.

Splinter's face was darkened with fury. "Will you fight again with your brother over some worthless wretch while your younger brother is out there? Captured, alone and no doubt frightened?!" Splinter's cane slammed into the floor. "Enough of this! Enough! Find Michelangelo and bring him home before something terrible happens to him! Do you understand me! You are the leader of this clan!" His voice raised, the fear of his son being missing and probably being tortured made the tone brittle and strained. "It falls to you to protect them when you go above!"

He shook with fury and paced. The tip of his cane slamming into the floor with each step.

Raphael clamped his mouth shut. He looked from Splinter to Leonardo whose posture was hunched with his chin lowered to his chest in shame. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt. He knew how much Splinter's praise or disappointment affected him. He would have to talk with him about Karai. He would have to explain to him that she choose him and that was all there was to it. He had his chance before and blew it.

But for now, Donatello was right, he had to get his head straight and find Mikey. He knew the first place to go investigating. Besides, Karai had better have some good answers to the questions he had for her about Leonardo.

Splinter had gone on and on finishing with, ". . . especially the most vulnerable of your brothers. And yet you allowed yourself to be distracted!" He turned and pointed his cane at Leonardo who cringed and closed his eyes. "I will hold you responsible for his well-being, Leonardo! Is that clear?"

Leonardo dropped his hands to his sides and bowed deeply. He choked out, "F-Forgive me, Sensei. I understand."

"We'll find 'em, Master Splinter," Raphael interrupted as he saw Master Splinter open his mouth to continue berating Leonardo. But the guy looked like he might start crying and Raphael was feeling the knot of guilt coiling in his gut. It wasn't pleasant.

The guy was an overbearing ass but he didn't deserve to be made to squirm like this. It was making Raphael sick. Leonardo relied too much on the approval of their father. Not that Raphael didn't care at all, just . . . not as much as Leo did. Raphael dragged the back of one fist across his leaking lip. He growled out, "Let's go, Leo."

Leonardo bowed once more to Master Splinter and then followed Raphael out of the lair. Pensive and thoroughly abashed.

# # #

The hours passed and Mikey had given up fighting with the chain. He squirmed. The pressure in his bladder was growing and he was getting desperate.

Finally, he climbed to stand and rocked back and forth, stepping from foot to foot, looking around frantically. Where could he go? _Why didn't that creep leave me a bucket or something? Didn't he think turtles needed restrooms?_

"Ah crap. Crap. Crapola." He shifted his feet and pinched his thighs together. His body burned with the need. He couldn't hold it another second. "Wheeeereeee can I goooo? Where oh where," Mikey sang under his breath.

He rocked back and forth and did his best to ignore the call of nature. But it was impossible. Finally, unable to hold it and not wanting to go right where he was forced to sleep, he scrambled to the edge of the mattress.

He went as far as the chain would let him and got as close to the wall as he could, hoping to make as little mess as possible. With one hand, he slid his finger over the pocket of flesh concealing his privates. With a roll of his abdominal muscles and a soft grunt, he pushed the tip of his penis through the slight opening and started to go. Dimly he thought he heard the sound of a car passing by but he was distracted with the immense relief he was feeling.

The creak of the stairs had him jump and look over his shoulder as much as he could with the collar making it nearly impossible to turn his head too far.

"What are you doing?" Malcolm asked as he stepped down the last few stairs. "What are you doing?" he repeated and limped further into the room.

Mikey flinched but couldn't stop the flow now that it started. The soldier was back! But he said he'd be gone for days. Didn't he? Mikey shook his head, if he'd known the guy was returning, he would have tried to hold it long enough to ask for a trip to the bathroom or something. Again, he was too weak and stupid. Here he was peeing on the wall of his cell like a freaking animal when he could've just asked for some help. He whimpered in shame and finished as quickly as he could. Embarrassment making his cheeks flush a deep pink.

"W-Well, what do you expect?!" he cried out as he moved backwards onto the mattress. "I thought you were going to be gone for  _days_!" His voice cracked, "Y-You didn't leave me much choice!"

Malcolm stared at the stain on the wall and the puddle at the base. "You _filthy_ . . ."

"I couldn't help it!" Mikey shouted, cheeks darkening, but getting angry. He wouldn't let this guy make him feel bad for doing something he couldn't control. "It's your fault for not leaving me a bucket or something!"

Malcolm was on him in a flash. The cattle prod scooped up from the floor and held in his fist.

"Fault! Fault?! My  _fault_?!" Malcolm screamed and slammed Mikey's head against the wall as he tried to scramble back and away from the madman. He pressed Mikey back by his face, pinning him as he writhed and tried to get his legs out from under him and kick. " _Your_  fault.  _Yours_!"

Something hard was jammed between his legs. Mikey's eyes widened as he realized it was the cattle prod. Icy fear flashed through him with the remembered pain that device brought. If he hadn't just emptied his bladder a moment ago, he would've at that moment.

"N-No!" he cried, his voice muffled by Malcolm's hand pressed against it. He didn't want to feel that horrible pain ever again. He was instantly regretful of losing his temper. " _Mmph_ , W-Wait!  _Wait_!"

His hands gripped and pulled at Malcolm's uniform in a desperate attempt to push him away. But then his body jerked and went rigid as bolts of electricity raced up from his groin throughout his abdomen and down his legs. His head jerked backwards and he bit his tongue. His mouth flooded with blood. The terrible pain flared through his system; making his heart slam into his ribs and his mind blank with animal panic.

Then he was down, panting for air with a squeezing chest and a heart beating too fast. He choked and gasped as he braced the weight of his body on his shoulder and side of his head. His legs felt like jelly and would not stop quivering.

"Uh, _ungh_ ," he panted. Blinking back the tears, he tried to focus his vision as his eyes rolled. Dimly he tried to get his bearings, swallowing the blood into his churning stomach. Malcolm's face appeared in front of his and huffing in terror between clenched teeth he did his best to lurch away. But Malcolm held the back of his head in a firm grip and pushed his face back down into the plastic covered mattress. Mikey whimpered as he braced himself for another round of pain.

"Not  _my_  fault you filthy pig. Do you hear me? You . . . not me . . . are a filthy, filthy  _pig_."

He slapped Mikey hard across the face, making him flinch and then was gone.

Panting, Mikey gave himself a moment to gather his strength, then struggled and managed to sit up in time to see Malcolm dragging the large metal bin out from under the bottom of the stairs. He dragged it out further with one hand, the other still wrapped around the wretched cattle prod, and then satisfied with the position of the tub, he nodded to himself.

He walked around it and it seemed as though Malcolm was limping or walking stiffly as if he were in pain. He gathered up the hose then crouched behind the stairs, muttering to himself still about fault and pigs. Then Mikey heard the squeak of a facet and Malcolm put the end of the hose into the tub.

"I-I th-thought you weren't coming b-back," Mikey tried to explain as a tear trickled down his face, but then fell silent feeling like he shouldn't try to explain his actions to this monster or hope for some kind of understanding or forgiveness.

His brothers would be so disappointed in him. Raph would be swearing at this guy and would have not let him ever, ever stick his finger into . . . Mikey closed his eyes and reminded himself not to think about that. To  _never_  think about that.

He refocused on what his brothers would do or how they would act if they were in his place. Leonardo would be calm and stoic. Brave. Donatello would have already escaped last night, having figured out how to unlink the chain with his mind powers or something.

Across the room, Malcolm stared down at the water and said, "I won't touch a filthy pig like you. I won't. Going to clean you up first. Scrub the filth from you." He grew quiet, then said in a low voice, "I'm doing this because I love you, you know. If I didn't," he glanced again at the puddle. "I would've killed you for that mess."

 _That's a little harsh,_  Mikey thought but dared not speak. He slowly ducked his pounding head closer to his chest and pulled backwards towards the corner. The chain rattled softly as he did and Mikey flinched, not wanting to attract any attention. This guy was seriously crazy. He had to be more careful with losing his temper or saying anything to set him off.

Setting the hose into the tub, Malcolm reached behind and pulled a set of keys out from a pouch on his belt. He crossed the room in his strange limping gait and approached Mikey who flinched and fell back, trembling and expecting another attack. His glassy eyes were locked on the cattle prod. His mind panicked. He brought his hands up to block with his forearm.

"No! Don't!" he cried as Malcolm reached behind his head and knocked him forward.

Mikey heard the jangle of keys and then he pitched forward as the collar fell from his neck. He stayed on his hands and knees for a moment, shocked at his sudden, unexpected advantage. He jumped up, wasting no time and threw a side kick at Malcolm. The blow connected and Malcolm fell back onto his bottom with a shocked shout of pain.

Mikey debated attacking him more or making a break for it. Part of him wanted to beat the guy senseless for what he'd done to him, but most of him just wanted to get home. Home! That settled it. He decided to run while he had the opportunity.

He bolted from the mattress and made a wild dash for the stairs. His wrists still bound, but legs free, knowing he was fast, faster than any of his brothers, he really thought he had a chance. But as he reached the bottom of the steps he was tackled from behind.

He flew forward and slammed painfully into the stairs; grunting as the wind was knocked from him. He felt Malcolm fumble with him and he kicked desperately, wildly behind him with his heels. Malcolm took a blow and blocked another.

Mikey growled and screamed in frustration as he clambered up onto his knees and managed to gain a few more stairs before he was knocked back down and dragged to the cement floor below. He spun around and kicked furiously with everything he had. He slammed his heel into Malcolm's chin and cried out in triumph as he again rolled around and made a mad dash for the stairs.

He felt Malcolm's hands grabbing at his legs and he cried out in fright. He fell forward again and started to scramble up the steps on his knees, banging his elbows and legs against the wooden steps. But he felt Malcolm's arms go around his thighs. His chin hit the edge of the stair and stars exploded across his eyes.

"Lemme go! Let go!" Mikey screamed in frustration.

He was so close to freedom. So close! He could see the light seeping in between the double doors at the top of the stairs, only feet away from where he strained against his attacker. He growled as fiercely as possible. But even to his desperate mind it sounded weak and ineffectual. Pathetic.

He felt Malcolm let go with one arm and suddenly felt his fist go under him. His struggling body tensed as Malcolm's hand wrapped around Mikey's tail where it was tucked in fright between his legs. His fingers tightened and Malcolm twisted it around his fist and yanked it back with a fierce, sharp jerk.

Pain lanced up through Mikey's spine as his body went rigid and his head was thrown back; mouth open in a silent shriek of pain. The clear sound of several bones snapping filled the air.

Mikey's breath hitched. He screamed.

_"Aaahaaaaaannngh!"_

His shuddering body immediately sagged against the stairs and his eyes rolled up into his head.


	6. Devoured

"I love you so, I love you so, I love you so.

Please don't go.

I'll eat you whole.

I love you so, I love you so, I love you so.

Please don't go.

I'll eat you whole." – _Breezeblocks_ , Alt-J

* * *

 

Malcolm fell on top of Mikey's shell, panting. He caught his breath; licking his lips. He rested his cheek against the grooved surface of Michelangelo's carapace. Malcolm's bottom lip puckered and he sniffled. He blinked slowly and rubbed his cheek along the rough surface of Michelangelo's shell.

His chin throbbed where Mikey's heel had caught him, but it was nothing. Nothing. The pain in his back from the whipping he endured yesterday lanced across him in tight, sharp waves of pain, but it was nothing. Nothing.

"He almost got away," Malcolm said and pinched his eyes closed with a shudder.

Now  _that_  hurt. A lot.

Emotions tangled and confused washed through him and knotted in his churning stomach. He was angry with Mikey; for getting him punished; for staining the room with his filth and for trying to run away. He didn't want to mark Mikey up more than he had to, but if he continued to fight like this . . . what choice would he have? But he was also sad that Mikey had tried so hard to get away. What had he done to deserve this from his love? Michelangelo took the first chance he got and tried to escape from him.

"Why would you do that?" he asked in a wounded voice and raised his head. " _Why?!"_  he snarled and slammed both hands onto Michelangelo's shell.

The earlier anger surfaced. It was not right that the turtle was using the wall as a bathroom. He would have to clean that and the idea made him sick. Revulsion washed through him. He ground his teeth and cast his eyes around the room. He had work to do. No time to waste being angry. Getting his breathing under control he rolled his shoulders back.

One thing at a time. It was Mikey's fault that he'd been punished by the  _whore_ , Karai. Mikey had to make that up to him. Malcolm had a few ideas how he could do that. But first he needed to clean the filth from Mikey's body before he allowed the young turtle to do so.

He pushed off the unconscious mutant. With a grunt, he reached around Michelangelo's body and wrapped his arms around his middle, sliding him back and down the stairs. He was heavy but there was a pleasantness to his bulk and Malcolm found himself growing more and more aroused as he struggled with Michelangelo's body. He groaned and lifted Mikey's body to the edge of the basin then strained and heaved him up and into the water.

Mikey slid down and his head immediately went under. Bubbles rose up out of Mikey's partially opened mouth. Malcolm scrambled in a moment of panic as he pulled at the sides of the turtle's head, yanking and dragging until his face emerged from the water. He reached down and tucked his hands under Michelangelo's armpits and hoisted him higher. Mikey's right arm flopped over the edge of the basin, keeping him upright.

Satisfied that Mikey would not slip down again and inadvertently drown, Malcolm retrieved the duffle bag he had left at the bottom of the stairs the other day. He unzipped the main compartment and rummaged around; pulling out a scrub brush and several folded towels, he set them aside near the basin. Then he found a large bottle of mineral oil and placed that next to the towels.

He stood up and crossed the room behind Mikey to the table up against the wall. He unzipped a wide side-pocket and from that he pulled out a zip-lock bag of syringes, that he held the tip of in his mouth as he rummaged around for the other items. He pulled out some thin rubber tubing and a small shoe box filled with vials and pill containers setting all these on the long table with the syringes.

Though drug use was punishable by death in the Foot Clan, its use was rampant among the ranks. Various types of popular club drugs circulated through the bunkers and exchanges could be made at any time for any need. Even Malcolm, with his limited interaction with his peers was able to get everything he needed with ease.

From the shoe box, he pulled a wide container out, labeled: Gamma hydroxybutyrate. He shook it and peered at the white powder within the plastic container. He glanced at Mikey to see if he was still out and then set it on the long table. That would be for later.

He chewed on his bottom lip, considering what to do first. When he really thought about it, he should have given him the GHB before he left, that way he would've been too drowsy to even think about running. Malcolm shook his head.

"Live and learn," he said with a sigh and a shrug. Now he knew what he needed to do. "People teach you how to treat them," he said with a nod, agreeing with himself. Mikey wouldn't run again. Never again. He froze and tilted his head up to one angle, thinking hard. "And if I have to, I could take one of his feet off," he decided.

Then he started to hum.

He reached into the duffle bag again and pulled out a small Tupperware bowl. He moved a few pill containers around with one finger until he found the one he was looking for.

"There you are," he muttered. With a dazed smile on his face, he lifted out the container labeled simply 'E'. He knew it was powerful, so he carefully shook out only one into the bowl. Then after a second thought, dropped another into the bowl, just to be safe. He cast around and found the cattle prod on the ground near the mattress. He retrieved it and used the end to crush the pills into a fine powder.

The tune he was humming grew louder and he began to sing some of the lyrics,  _"Dream lover, where are you . . ."_  When he was done grinding the pills into a powder, he moved to the tub where Mikey sat and scooped a little water into the crushed powder, swirling it as he stared at the contours of Mikey's face with a tilted head.

He stopped singing. "You're so beautiful," he murmured.

Then he went back to humming as he took the plastic tubing and approached Mikey once again. He wrapped it around Mikey's bicep, just above his elbow. Malcolm slowly ran his fingertips up and down the toned curves of Michelangelo's arm. His skin was smooth, almost silky, and his muscles were firm. Malcolm swallowed as he imagined Michelangelo wrapping those strong arms around him in a loving embrace. He shivered.

Hurrying back to the table, with hands that trembled, he filled one syringe entirely with the mixture. He knelt next to Michelangelo's arm and prodded a vein or two before finding one that was thick and just begging to be penetrated. Malcolm's eyes focused carefully and the tip of his tongue ran along the top ridge of his teeth as he slowly jabbed the needle into Mikey's vein. Mikey made a soft sound from between his closed lips and his arm jumped a little but Malcolm held him firmly.

"Hold still," he said softly, "otherwise you'll bruise. And we don't want that. No, we don't."

He pushed the plunger down, draining all of the drug mixture into Mikey's vein. He slid the needle out and watched the pearl of blood form at the injection site. He leaned in and his eyelids fluttered shut as his tongue lapped at the blood, once. Then again.

"You taste sweet," he said with a dreamy look on his face. His thoughts wandered to what else might be sweet to taste. "Oops," he said and abruptly stood up. "First things, first, Malcolm," he chided himself and chuckled. He tossed the empty syringe onto the table. He walked around the basin and stooped to grab the scrub brush. He started to scrub Mikey as his humming once again turned to Bobby Darin's lyrics.

# # #

The first thing Mikey knew was that someone was singing. It was a quiet sound. Like the person singing didn't want to wake him. That was nice.

Mikey frowned.

His heart was beating very fast and he felt odd; bouncy; giddy; dizzy. A soft chuckle came through his nose with his exhale. He felt silly. His mouth pulled up into a smile. He started to hum along with the song as his mind tried to identify the sound of the person's voice. Who was it? It didn't fit with any of his brothers and it was certainly not Master Splinter.

Then he became aware that his teeth were chattering; his jaw was sore from it. He cracked his eyes open and was met with gray light and the white puff of his breath in front of his snout.

"Wh-Where?"

The voice stopped singing just as Mikey's hazy mind realized who it belonged to. The . . . mean . . . bad-finger guy!

The memories flooded back in a clouded rush of frightening images and Mikey tensed and jumped in panic. His head swam and he felt like he was tipping out of the basin. The icy water splashed around him. When the water moved across his skin it felt like a thousand tiny fingers tickling him. The sensation was so strong, he could barely take it.

His face darted around. The movement was too fast and he suddenly felt ill, like he might vomit. His eyes rolled. He didn't feel good. His stomach was flipping and churning in a sickening way. And his heart would not stop galloping like he was in the middle of running a marathon.

Malcolm's warm hand pushed against his upper chest near his clavicle and shoved him back down. Mikey felt the touch as though it went through him, into him, into his bones. He let out a small gasp.

"Almost done," he said.

Mikey slid, unable to keep himself still in the tickling water, his tail bumped against his heel. He winced as sharp shooting pains shot up through his bottom and lower back. His stomach rolled again and he regretted trying to get up so fast.

"Oh  _shit_ ," he slurred and with his free hand he covered his mouth.

He knew he was in trouble but that seemed far away in his mind. Almost as if it were someone else in trouble and not him. Mikey dimly knew he should be afraid, but . . . he couldn't understand why.

He looked up at the man that was smiling at him. Something told him to be afraid of this person, but instead of fear, he felt a strange sort of connection with him. A feeling like this guy was not going to hurt him. No one would hurt him. He needed to relax.

Confusion muddled his mind. It was a cloudy haze of befuddled thoughts. What was wrong with him? But the worry evaporated into the foggy depths of his mind. Everything was fine. He felt too good right now to be afraid. Too giddy. The water kept tickling him and aside from the cold and his tail hurting so much, it was all good. A lazy smile spread across Mikey's face as the nausea eased back. He made to move and winced as pain shot through him.

"You . . . broke my tail, dude," he said with a half-hearted giggle.

At that, Malcolm laughed. "I think you're right."

Mikey felt another giggle bubble up from between his lips. Everything seemed funny. Funnier than usual. "Th-that sucks. Why'd ya do that?"

He didn't get an answer and he shrugged. His right arm felt heavy and numb. He moved his shoulder and blinked as he tried to understand what was wrapped around his arm. "Why . . . am I all wrapped up?" Mikey asked, chuckling; his head dipped back too far and it took a lot of effort to right it.

He heard Malcolm huff a soft laugh, "Sorry. Forgot about that."

His voice seemed to come from all around him, surrounding him as it bounced and lapped around the room. Mikey's eyes roved the floor and the ceiling, he could almost see the words Malcolm had spoken if he looked hard enough. He wondered what words would look like, floating in the air. Maybe like a comic book, in little word bubbles. He chuckled again.

"It would be cool to see my name up there," he babbled and pointed up in the general direction of the ceiling. "Words are nice," he mumbled.

Donnie would know how to make that happen. He was good with making up stuff. Cool stuff. He would have to remember to ask his brainy brother when he saw him next if he could make him a word bubble maker.

Malcolm was suddenly next to him. He took Michelangelo's arm in his hands and pulled on the knot and undid the rubber tubing. Michelangelo looked up at him, a wide grin on his face. He said slowly, extending the first word, "Thaaank you." Then, when his arm was free, he scrunched up his snout as he brought his hand up in front of his face and peered at it. His tingling fingers opened and closed. "'M all numb," he muttered slowly to himself.

"How are you feeling?" Malcolm asked him.

The room beyond was dancing and bouncing in a very unpleasant way. The lights were swirling in a pattern that made his head hurt but he kept glancing at them, unable to break from their hypnotic movements for too long.

"I'm feelin' . . . pretty good," he nodded as he spoke and watched the room bounce along with the movement. But his teeth started to chatter again and he shivered suddenly becoming aware of how cold he was. "Can I . . . get out?"

Malcolm moved around and stood at the end of the basin near Mikey's feet, a towel slung over his bent arm and a bottle of something in his other hand. "Yes, you may," Malcolm said with a delighted smile.

Mikey braced his hands on either side of the tub and immediately as he stood up he pitched to one side and fell out of the basin onto the floor in a heap with a shout of surprise. Malcolm was next to him in a flash, covering him with the towel and helping him sit up.

"Are you okay?"

"Whoa," Mikey shook his head and closed his eyes. "Whoa," he repeated.

Everything felt upside down and topsy-turvy. What was wrong with him? His body was trembling hard but he wasn't sure why. He was cold but the towel was warm. Malcolm was warm. Without meaning to, he leaned into him seeking the warmth; snuggling closer to the man.

Malcolm hugged him tightly and kissed the top of his head. The action made a pang of homesickness wash over Mikey then. A sigh slipped through his lips. He missed his brothers, he missed his father. When he was little and had a cold, Master Splinter would bundle him up and hold him like this. He wanted Master Splinter. He let out another long, sad sigh.

"Something wrong?"

"My tail hurts a lot," Mikey answered honestly in a sleepy voice and blinked lazily. He'd become very tired all of a sudden. As if getting out of the tickling water had drained him of all his strength. The image of his room popped into his head; his comfy bed. His voice was soft as he pleaded, "I really want to go home, now . . . please."

Malcolm sounded hurt, "But . . .  _why_?"

"I'm . . . really tired. And I feel . . . funny," he giggled but there was nothing to even laugh about. He missed his home. His brothers. Sadness pulled at him. "Can I . . .  _please_? Y-You're not really a bad guy, right?"

In a perpetually patient voice, Malcolm said, "You know I'm not. I told you, I'm going to take care of you. You belong with me now."

Malcolm helped him up and Mikey shook his head sadly. He stumbled forward; his legs seemed to not remember how to walk correctly.

"Are you taking me home, now?" Mikey asked innocently with hopefully eyes, glassy and wide.

Malcolm nodded. "Yes, my love. You are home."

Mikey frowned but then Malcolm was moving him across the room and it was hard to think and move at the same time. Mikey leaned heavily against him as the man helped him down onto the plastic covered mattress. At the sight of it, a thrill of panic ran through him, his hands went out to brace himself and a puff of frantic breath escaped from him. But Malcolm eased him down by pulling on his wrists.

Mikey went down like a wet sack.

The feeling he'd just had was important, Mikey knew that, but it raced away, slippery and too quickly for Mikey to understand why he needed to clutch and hold on to that feeling of fright. From far away, something was trying to warn him of danger, but it was too far away to be clear. And he was so tired. He felt anxious and exhausted all at once, like the two emotions were battling in his trembling body. His head felt heavy and like it wanted to roll off his shoulders while his heart was hammering and making him feel nauseous and giddy.

Mikey rested his cheek in the crook of his arm. He really wished the room would stop spinning.

He felt the mattress shift as Malcolm knelt next to him. A bolt of fear raced through him. Part of his mind told him he needed to get up and fight this guy. But he felt too sleepy to fight. Why did he have to fight everyone all the time? Why couldn't people just be nice? Nice was . . .  _nice_. He just wanted to close his eyes now. The pull of slumber was too strong to ignore.

He turned his head and opened his mouth to say he wanted to be left alone when Malcolm started to hum again. Mikey jumped as he felt something cold touch the back of one thigh. But then Malcolm's warm hand was rubbing the moisture into his thigh and across and down his legs; warming his frigid skin. It felt good. Really good. The best thing ever. He was beginning to relax again when he felt Malcolm gently grip his injured tail and run the length of it through his fist. The sensation was both pleasant and extremely painful.

"Ah!" Mikey cried softly, then louder said, "N-No!"

"What's the matter?"

"M-My tail . . . it hurts. Y-You h-hurt me."

Malcolm let the piece of Mikey's body fall limply between his legs. It was bruised looking and was definitely swollen despite the long soak in the frigid water. This would be a problem. Mikey was struggling to get up when Malcolm placed his hands on Mikey's shell, pressing him back down with little effort.

"L-Lemme get up," Mikey stuttered.

The fear was taking root. His hazy mind began to focus through the cloud of exhaustion, but the edges of his vision kept blurring no matter how many times he blinked and tried to clear it. The room was spinning but the walls seemed to be coming closer, the ceiling covered in swinging chains was creeping slowly downward to crush him. He cringed back, whimpering.

"Relax, Mikey. Do you need some more?"

"M-More?" The bed beneath his cheek was wet. He frowned then realized it was from him drooling.

"Are you still sleepy?"

Mikey nodded; eyes closed; cheek pressed against the plastic. If he closed his eyes, the room didn't seem so scary anymore. And he was so tired. He just wanted to go to sleep now.

He felt the mattress tip and heard the sound of clothes being rustled. He raised his brow up to help his eye crack open.

"I . . . wa-nna go home . . . Wa-Wh-Whadare you doin'?" he slurred.

From the corner of his eye he thought he saw Malcolm standing naked next to him.

He pinched his eyes shut and choked out a nervous chuckle. He was seeing things now. And yet, something felt off. He sensed the change before he actually knew what was happening. It was as though the air had shifted and Michelangelo felt the slick threat hanging; suspended over him. A tremor went through him as the silence of the room fell like ash settling on him. Coating him.

Afraid of what he may see, but forcing himself to look anyway, he carefully opened his eyes again just as Malcolm fell on him.


	7. The Hidden Things The Ugly Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned. I do not pull my punches. And this is sure to be a punch in the gut. 
> 
> If you do not want to be taken on this ride, there is the exit; right before you. I do not force you to attend this story nor do I wish to fool you into thinking this is something that it's not. I write realistically and aim for truth in all its gritty, grim and uncomfortable honesty.
> 
> For those of you who want nothing more than the thrill of fiction, the mad rush of a tale of terror and horror?
> 
> I will waste no more of your time and get the hell out of your way . . .

His eyes went wide as Malcolm grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned him roughly to the mattress. Mikey grunted and struggled. Using his elbows, he tried to knock Malcolm off him, but Malcolm shoved him down and held him in place. The spinning intensified and Mikey fell still, pinching his eyes closed as his heart hammered and his teeth chattered.

He made a small frightened noise and Malcolm shushed him.

"Shhh, don't fight, my love," Malcolm's voice was a warm breath on the back of his neck and side of his face. "I've waited so long for this moment."

Every part of him quivered with awareness. The feel of Malcolm's hands on his shoulders, his bare flesh pressed against his carapace, even, was acute and almost too much to withstand. Every brush against his shell was like sandpaper being worked against his bones, making him grind his teeth. Panic, bright and sharp, swept through him as he felt Malcolm wedge his knee between his legs, forcing them apart. He felt Malcolm's weight on his shell shifting. The hot flesh of his hairy thighs against his hairless legs.

"Unf! Get . . . Get offa me!" Mikey yelled, the exhaustion was pushed aside as fright took its place.

A warning growl meant to intimidate and scare the man rumbled from his chest.

Malcolm paused for a moment, then  _laughed_  at him; the sound of it, taunting and amused.

He jumped as he felt Malcolm kiss the back of his head. His laughter stung Mikey, making him feel even more afraid and small, somehow. He tried to growl again, but choked instead, finding he was too breathless to make the threatening sound, that and Mikey was feeling anything but threatening at the moment. He swallowed dryly and frowned. The walls were wobbling and jumping in a weird sort of dance that added to Michelangelo's confusion and fear.

He didn't know what was happening, but instinct told him he was in terrible trouble. Instinct understood what was happening and an unknown terror gripped him. Malcolm was going to do something bad to him. The thing that was never talked about. The hidden, secret thing that made people shift and swallow, not looking into the camera any longer on the shows he'd snuck and watched out of morbid curiosity, the people, no, the  _victims_ , not wanting to talk about it. The thing that Splinter didn't want him to know about. All the scary things his father and brothers had tried to keep from him. The ugly things.

The pounding in his head increased, matching the hammering of his panicked heart. Malcolm bumped into his injured tail sending waves of electric pain through him. Mikey gave a strangled cry.

"Ow!  _Ohho_ ," he cried his misery into the mattress. He drew a ragged breath and screamed, "Get off  _me_! Let me  _go_!"

Malcolm wrapped his arm under Mikey's and his hand moved up around his mouth, covering it. "Sh-hhh," Malcolm shushed him; spittle laced Mikey's cheek.

Michelangelo snapped at his grasping fingers, snagging one and biting down hard on it. Breaking the skin as he growled. Malcolm hissed and pulled his hand away. He reared back and brought his elbow down, crashing against the corner of Mikey's left eye.

He yelped and cringed in pain.

"Don't try to bite me again," Malcolm ground out, shoving his face hard into the mattress and holding it there with one hand. He pressed down and Mikey squirmed as the tendrils of hot blood from Malcolm's bitten finger trailed down the side of his cheek. "Understand  _me_?"

Mikey shook his head desperately,  _"Fuck you!"_  his muffled screamed came from between his mashed cheeks.

"Yes. Yes, you will. My love. My pet," Malcolm purred into Mikey's ear and Mikey flinched and to his deep shame, tears slid free from his clenched eyes.

Malcolm released his head and wrapped his arm under Mikey's armpit once again, but this time he took hold of Michelangelo's throat. Mikey bucked and shook his shoulders; trying to knock the lunatic off of him; he tried to climb onto his hands and knees but his hands kept sliding on the plastic and the dizziness was making it hard to know which way was up. Malcolm tightened his grip around Mikey's throat, squeezing until Mikey was straining to breathe. His head dropped and his body trembled and Malcolm eased his hold as Mikey unwillingly submitted; panting and wheezing into the mattress. He was holding Mikey down with his upper body and his other hand gripped Mikey's right shoulder, keeping it firmly still.

"I told you not to struggle. I don't want this to be an ugly thing, my pet." He felt Malcolm rub his cheek along the side of his head. "Making love with the one your heart belongs to should never be an ugly thing." Mikey shuddered in revulsion as Malcolm dragged his tongue against the back and side of his sweat-soaked neck.

"You taste delicious, lover."

At that, Mikey lost the battle to keep calm. Panic took him under.

"N-No!  _No!_  H-Help! Help me!" he yelled. "S-Someone help!"

A part of his frantic mind prayed that someone would be passing by and would hear him. Someone  _had_  to hear him through that window and would come to his aid if he hollered hard enough. He gasped and screamed as loud as he could, then again. Malcolm's laughter rained down on him making his terror double.

"Who's going to save you?" Malcolm asked between his chuckling.

Blind with wild panic and fright, reaching out from the depths of his heart to plea for his brave, bold older brother to save him. Leonardo would save him. Leonardo wouldn't let anything bad happen to him.

_"Help! L-Leo! Help! Leo! Leo-oo! H-Help me!"_

Malcolm snarled upon hearing his desperate cries for his brother. He reared back and punched the side of his head. Mikey's body jumped with the impact. But still he cried out for his brother to come save him.

_"Leooo! Leoooo!"_

"Calling for your  _brother_? You want him here instead of me, huh? Is that what you do with them? You little whore?! I knew it! I  _knew it!"_

Malcolm struck him again and again until Mikey's hoarse voice stopped calling for Leonardo. His throbbing head fell limply against the plastic, his clawing fingers curled into shaking, loose fists. Blood pooled from his gaping mouth. Tears spilled down his face. The room spun around him. Around and around and side to side like a rocking boat. He thought he was going to vomit.

He suddenly felt something blunt prodding at him between his legs. His body tensed. Icy waves of renewed terror crashed through him.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He was ninja. He was a warrior. He never hurt anyone that didn't try to hurt him first. He never did anything bad. A few pranks but he never meant to do anything bad.

Was he being punished? Was that the reason this was happening?

 _I will never, ever pull another prank_ , he swore desperately in his mind to anyone who might be listening. He pleaded for forgiveness, for mercy, for rescue. He shook his head more forcibly this time, his heart slamming a thundering rhythm of fright in his ears, his lips sliding through the thick pool of blood just beneath them.

Raph would not let this happen if he were here. He would fight this guy off. He would not allow this to happen. What would Raphael think of him if this happened?

Mikey's clouded mind stumbled as it raced . . . what could he do? He wasn't strong like Raphael. With a strained effort, he tried to curl up his broken tail to block his entrance. If it wasn't broken and throbbing with pain, it would have been held tightly up over his opening, securely between his bottom's cheeks. But the bones were snapped and it hurt just to try and move it over a little. He managed, but it cost him. He let out an agonized moan. All his effort did little good. It only made things worse.

Malcolm continued to prod at him and when his tail finally moved into the way, he heard Malcolm curse under his breath. Then he felt Malcolm's right hand slid down from off his shoulder. Mikey's body froze and went rigid.  _Oh no!_

"W-Wait, p-please!" Mikey begged from between his swollen, bleeding lips. "N-No!"

But the man ignored his pleas. He might as well have been begging the stones around him for all the good it did. Malcolm wrapped his fingers around the aching appendage and yanked it cruelly to the side and out of his way. A broken shriek erupted from Mikey's mouth. His entire body tightened up and thrummed with furious quivering. Agony shot up and down his spine.

But it was nothing compared to what happened next.

A bolt of cramping pain slammed through him as Malcolm penetrated his entrance. Slowly spreading him open and then forcibly sliding into him until Malcolm's hips ground into his bottom and sore tail. All the breath squeezed out of his collapsed lungs; his watering eyes clamped shut; his mouth pulled back into a snarl of silent anguish; baring his fangs completely.

There was a moment where no one moved. Suspended in time like a nightmare looming about during the day; they paused; bodies connected in a mockery of what others shared as physical love between two consenting lovers. Then Malcolm, luxuriating in his pleasure, eyes rolled up to the ceiling in lustful joy, began to thrust himself into Mikey. Over and over. In and out, hard and in a steady rhythm.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Ah! My . . .  _pet_! You're . . .  _mine_! Ugh! At . . .  _last_!" Malcolm shouted between groans.

Mikey was pinned, immobilized, in his agony. His toes dug at the mattress while his fingers clawed uselessly as he whimpered and groaned in pain, choking on his shame. Malcolm's breath came heavy and shallow across his cheek. Mikey curled his hands into fists and pressed them into his eyes, hard. He shuddered. His stomach roiled and he tasted bile.

" _Ngh, ngh, ungh._  S-Stop. Please, y-you're h-hurting m-me," Mikey pleaded, his voice muffled by the mattress. Humiliation smothered him. Pain like nothing else he'd ever felt splintered through his lower body. He wanted to die. More than anything, he wanted Malcolm to strangle the life from him and end this nightmare. "Pl-ea-ease,  _ungh_. It,  _urk, ungh_ , hurts."

" _Uh! Unh!_  Yes, Mikey, Yes. Mine. You're mine.  _UH!_  Oh, it only  _uh, uh,_  hurts at first," he panted. "You'll see, sweet, sweet, sweeeet one,  _unnngh_! You'll love this soon,  _uh_ , enough!"

"No-o," Mikey cried and a sob choked him.

He felt Malcolm's hand sliding up and down his arm, along the tender flesh between his plastron and his shell. His movements became more and more urgent as he slammed faster and faster into Mikey until his entire body was jolted forward and backward from the force of it. Mikey's mind was a blank blaze of fright and agony, shame and disgust.

Suddenly Malcolm gave a strangled cry and Mikey felt his burning body flood with something hot. Mikey choked and cried out in revulsion as Malcolm emptied himself fully inside him. Malcolm's hips bucked once, then once more before he collapsed on Mikey's shell.

Michelangelo pressed his face deeper into the mattress, trying to escape from what was happening to him. If he could've drawn himself into his shell, if he had the ability of his natural, primitive cousins, then he would've done so. More than anything he wanted to curl up and die.

He quaked as he felt Malcolm's mouth press against the back of his head. Then he felt the weight of the man lifted from him. He heard the sound of clothing rustling. By inches, Mikey raised his head up. Vision blurred with tears, he blinked to try and clear it. But more welled up only blinding him again.

A trio of voices, sounding very much like Don, Leo and Raph, screamed in his mind,  _Get up! Get up! This is your chance to escape! Don't just lay there like a pussy! You didn't fight him off, at least take the chance to run! Get up!_ But he couldn't move. His bottom hurt so much. Humiliation and shame laid upon him like cinder blocks; weighing him down, making it hard to breathe and impossible to move.

As the room came into focus, Malcolm knelt before his face. With one hand he gripped Mikey's cheeks and squeezed, then with his other he dumped something powdery into his mouth. Mikey recoiled and coughed, choking.

"Mmpf, mmmno!" he cried and scrambled backwards until his shell hit the wall. He rolled up into a fetal position, tucking his head in the crook between his shoulder and the mattress. His tongue tried to push the cakey material it from his mouth, but his saliva had already dissolved it. The chalky taste flooded his senses. The room spun behind Malcolm.

"Just give it a minute or two, you'll feel much better in a minute," Malcolm's voice sounded hollow and distorted. Mikey was having trouble keeping his eyes open and focused. They kept rolling around along with the twirling lights above him. Rolling and dancing. His head grew heavier and heavier. Mikey's pupils dilated as he stared into nothingness and his fevered, panicked mind settled into empty numbness.

Malcolm stooped and picked up his shirt. He pulled it on over his pants, then stood over Mikey, considering him.

"That was really nice. Oh, Mikey. You're going to only get better at this. I promise. You cost me a lot," he said and tilted his head to the right and left, cracking the bones in his neck. "But you were worth it. Every chance I took, every lash from that whip. You were worth it all," he said with his chest filling with love.

He reached up and pulled a chain down from the wall at the head of the mattress. The links clanged as they slid through the larger 'O' ring. He dug out the collar from the side of the mattress and the wall near the head of the bed where it had lodged as he was taking the young mutant. He snapped the clip connected to the chain onto the collar.

Malcolm eased Mikey's body to his side. Michelangelo made no move to fight him or help. He was limp and heavy in his arms. Malcolm stopped for a moment, using his thumb, he lifted one of the turtle's eyelids and peered at the dazed eye beneath it.

"Hm, hopefully, I didn't give you too much," he muttered with a frown.

In all his planning, he hadn't considered the chance that the drugs he'd decided to use might have an adverse reaction with their mutated bodies. He'd have to track down one of the soldiers in research and development and carefully ask a few questions so he didn't accidentally give his dear one an overdose. He brought his mouth to Mikey's bloody lips. He knelt, kissing him deeply, working his tongue into Mikey's mouth, tasting the blood and spit and the remnants of the GHB. Mikey's eyelids fluttered and he made a soft whimper. Malcolm finally pulled back and licked at Mikey's blood smeared across his mouth. He smiled.

"I know. It's wonderful, isn't it?"

With tender care, he placed the metal collar around Mikey's throat; locking it into place. He bent closer and gave Mikey another slow, deep kiss. Mikey's eyes fluttered closed. A soft frown puckered his brows. His fingers fumbled slowly at the plastic beneath him. Malcolm's tongue plundered Mikey's mouth; lapping and tasting the mix of blood and tears.

"Oh, I do want to stay," Malcolm whispered.

He pulled back and stroked Mikey's cheek. The young turtle's eyes roamed the ceiling and rolled back. The drugs were fast acting just as he knew they would be. He wasn't sure if Mikey could hear him at this point but he said, "I'll be back later for more, lover. I've got so much to show you. But I need to make sure I don't accidentally hurt you. We need to play it safe."

His hand trailed over the front of Mikey's still shivering body. He slid his fingers between Mikey's legs and Mikey made a soft whimper. Malcolm's fingers explored, then discovered the slip just at the bottom inverted 'v' of his plastron.

He tugged at the sinewy skin that kept Michelangelo and his brothers' masculinity well hidden and protected. His fingertip pressed inside where it was warm, so warm. He felt the rounded, fleshy tip of Mikey's manhood where it was tucked away so neatly like a little present. He shivered with anticipation.

"You'll bring that out for me, next time. I can't wait to know you."

Then his fingers pulled away and trailed along the sticky, dripping underside of Mikey's trembling body. He smiled, but then the smile fell away as his fingertips found Mikey's tail. His face darkened. That dreadful chunk of flesh had gotten in his way for the last time. There was only one thing to do about it.

"It has to go," Malcolm muttered to himself. He considered what Mikey had said about it being sensitive. Malcolm shrugged. "Dogs get their tails bobbed every day," he said to Mikey's now unconscious form.

He sat up and ticked off his to do list on his fingers. He needed to find out how much a mutant turtle could be drugged before they overdosed. He needed a pair of large scissors. He had to check in with Karai before too many days went by and the whore got suspicious of him again.

He glanced again at Michelangelo's tail. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Maybe he would take care of that tail first. He wondered if the house had any scissors that would be able to cut through the thick appendage. He needed to clean up anyway. He'd take a shower and see if he could find a nice pair of strong scissors. He patted Mikey's leg.

"I'll be back soon," he said and started to hum happily as he crossed the room to the stairs.


	8. White Lies, Burnt Black at the Edges

**_"_ ** _Is he still comin' around like an injured bird needing a nest? A place to rest_

_his head in a song you'll regret._

_Lord knows, I don't want to compete. But I still sleep_

_in the very sheets, he's been in._

_Swallow him whole like a pill that makes you choke and spills your soul._

_You have the nerve to look me in the eye - and lie._

_Send him back._

_I won't share the trap you have me in."_  -  _Sheets_  by Damien Jurado

* * *

 

 

They kept to the shadows, retracing their steps from the previous evening, avoiding the passing civilians going to and from their mundane points of existence, oblivious to the desperate terror of three searching for one. The day had slipped into twilight and it started to snow. Heavy tears of slushy mourning fell from the pregnant clouds hanging low and battle gray above them. It coated their shoulders and heads, weighing them down with the knowledge that every second that passed, inches accumulated; marring any evidence of what had happened to their youngest brother.

The white blanket quickly filling and erasing any small signs of what had taken place while their shells were turned on their most vulnerable brother. It made looking for tracks increasingly infuriating and futile.

In the back of his mind, Donatello could hear Mikey's voice telling him to look at the beauty of it. As he had done every time it snowed. Mikey had a way of pointing out the intricate loveliness woven between the ugly hard edges of the city.

Donatello had a way of completely ignoring him. The more rudely done the better, as it meant Mikey would back off and give him some solitude to work. Donnie clenched his bo in twin fists, standing in the center of the alley where they had double backed and retraced yet again. Guilt twisted his stomach into knots and he swore that if they found him . . . No.  _when_ they found him, he would never ignore his brother's ramblings again. No matter the immaterial content of the subject. He would listen until Mikey grew hoarse and finally fell silent.

Even if it took all night. Even if it took days. He would listen. And listen well.

Raphael was edging further down the alley and Donatello had a suspicion that he had a destination in mind. The way he'd been trying to slip out of Leonardo's sight all day gave him away. There was a strained expression that not even the bruises from his earlier fight with Leo could hide. He had been itching to lose them. But Leonardo had been on to him. His head snapped up from where he crouched, his black trench coat spread behind him like the splayed wings of a black bird, grounded.

"Raph," he barked out in a warning tone. It was the first direct communication he'd had with Raphael all day.

Raphael stood there for a moment, staring at Leonardo with fuming hatred and stubborn defiance. The red scarf was tied in a clumsy knot around his neck. The tail of it hung limp down the front of him where he stood, ankle deep in wet snow. Both hands were resting on the hilts of his sais. A threat that was sent without a sound.

"This ain't gettin' us nowhere. You're getting us no closer to finding 'em. I'm done."

He turned and ran down the alley then, like a child caught in an act so terrible they'd rather book than deal with the consequences. Leonardo rose up, the bottom of his coat soaked through. Donatello noted the tight pinch in his shoulders, the rigid stance.

"He's right."

His face whipped around and Don was sure he heard a bone pop in his brother's stiff neck. He was a bow string pulled taunt and the slightest vibration was sure to make him snap. His eyes were red-rimmed and looked tired from scanning minute details that may or may not give them some idea of what had happened to Michelangelo. Most likely it was the tracks and leavings of homeless people that crossed through this alley on a daily basis, further muddling any signs they could have actually used.

But Donatello did not want to be the one to break that to his older brother. Not now. Not when he had that brittle expression; a mix of fury and desperate fragility. One wrong word would do it. Honestly, it was making Donatello sick. He didn't have time for this bullshit.

Leonardo was great at planning and executing battles but he lacked sorely in common sense at times. He was the quintessential leader: bold and daring without being foolish, bright enough to keep them surviving encounters with the Foot, but sadly ignorant to some obvious things. He seemed blinded by the details and as the saying went, he saw not the forest because of the trees.

Don sighed and dropped his head.

He wanted to go back to the lair and try to see if he could work a way to track Mikey by his cell. No matter how many times he'd tried to remind Mikey, more often than not, the cell phone was left on the nightstand buried beneath a pile of pilfered comics and snack packages. Before he could try anything elaborate, he had to see if the foolish kid had even taken it with him on their excursion last night to the junk yard.

Guilt fisted a ball in his stomach. The trek that he had insisted on doing alone. Once again, Leonardo had missed the bigger picture. He focused on the safety of one when just behind his shell another was taken. Looking left instead of right. It would've been simpler for one to sneak in and out of the junk yard unseen, unnoticed, unharmed. The four of them drew more attention. But Leonardo only saw that numbers meant more protection. Security. Sometimes numbers complicated matters. Even Donatello, who lived in a world of calculations, who lived and breathed numbers on a daily basis, understood that fact. And here they were, wasting more time.

Donatello gave him the permission he unwittingly was waiting for. The permission only Donatello could give to his older brother. For Leonardo turned to him for guidance near as often as he did to Master Splinter.

"If you think it would actually help anything, go after him." Don sheathed his bo and indicated the alley with both hands. "There's nothing here for us, Leo."

Leonardo debated internally for a moment, then with a brief nod, he turned.

"Stay focused, Leo," Don called to him as an afterthought. He didn't want to come off insulting but Don was suddenly afraid that his two brothers were not actually hunting Michelangelo's whereabouts but now off pursuing a different prey. A female one.

Leonardo gave him no answer. It both worried him and set his heart hammering with fury. Perhaps he was on his own with this problem. It wouldn't be the first time Donatello felt isolated from the group; left to fix what normally would be an impossible chore. He should have demanded that Leonardo come back with him to assist him. But the truth was he worked better alone. And his brother was distracted just as much if not more so than Raphael. It troubled him and pissed him off to no end. He only hoped that Michelangelo was being held in a cell and not being tortured or worse.

He stood there for another moment as Leonardo's form was devoured by the swirling snow and creeping shadows. He was left with only the wet sounds of snow plopping on the metal fire escapes above his head and the distant, muffled sound of the evening traffic winding down. And the whirling fear that spun in the back of his mind like the flakes spinning in the air in front of him.

# # #

Karai watched the snow falling down outside the window where she was curled up on her leather couch, one hand cradling a delicate mug of steaming tea. She was wrapped in a thigh-length silken robe, patterned with cherry blossoms and delicately detailed branches. The snow fell and reflected white and sparkling in her emerald eyes. The silence was peaceful and oppressive at the same time. She sat huddled in the center of it, feeling everything, sensing nothing of importance except her own heartbeat in the lonely room.

A thud somewhere outside had her frowning and setting down her tea on the glass coffee table. The front door being kicked in had her rolling onto the floor in a panicked shout of fright. She spun around, hair in her eyes, robe slightly askew, flashing the expanse of her pale chest and the tops of her softly rounded breasts.

From the storm a figure loomed dark and terrible at her door. The wind howled around him and spiraling streams of snow wafted around his broad shoulders. He turned his head and their eyes locked. His glare was piercing and fierce as ever. It made her already thumping heart race faster. To her shame, she felt her cheeks warm beneath that gaze, felt the heady tingling in her lower regions as part of her mind leapt to the heated notion that he had come here to indulge himself with her body.

 _He could have knocked,_  she thought petulantly, deciding in that moment that she wasn't in the mood. She would deny him what he came here so brazenly for; thinking he could just take what he wanted from her without asking first. He would just have to get his shell back out into the storm until she decided she wanted him. Pressing her mouth into a tight line, she straightened up onto her knees, pulling her robe closed and crossing her arms.

"Just what do you think-" she started.

But he slammed the door behind him with a backwards kick; cutting her off; making her wince, and snarled, "We need ta talk."

He was next to her as she stood, crowding close, so close, she braced her hands against the ice cold plain of his wide chest; backing her towards the couch until she fell on her bottom with a disgruntled exhale. He stood over her; his scarf and body dripping the melting snow onto her rug; leaving dark splotches on the pattern. He gazed down at her and his eyes gleamed with fury . . . and something else.

She wasn't sure, but it looked like he was tired, or worried. She couldn't even imagine it, but he also looked – afraid. His face looked bruised and puffy. Her eyes trailed down and she could see his knuckles were swollen and one of them was cracked. He'd been in a fight. An ugly one, apparently.

"Okay," she said. "Let's have some tea and talk. Though I have no idea what we could possibly even begin to . . ." she was talking as she moved to stand.

"Sit down!" he roared and she obeyed with a small peep. He began to pace then. He ran a hand over his face, muttering something she couldn't make out. He shot her a glance then crossed his arms. "First things first. Last night, when you were stalkin' us with your sorry excuse for ninja –" he cut himself off suddenly.

His face showed that he was suddenly struck with something he was wrestling with. "Did you order one of your men to attack my brother?" he asked suddenly, shoulders pinching.

"Against . . . Leo?" she asked confused. "No, I sent them away before you  _attacked_  me." She shot him a glare but he ignored her.

"Don't play stupid. 'Cuz I swear, Karai, if I find out you had him captured . . ." he leaned down and Karai had no choice but to ease back. His lip curled and the look on his face was bloodthirsty.

She swallowed dryly.

"The fact that you're fuckin' me won't stop me from tearing you ta pieces, you understand me?"

Though knowing full well that he was more than capable of such a thing, Karai wasn't completely convinced that he'd actually hurt her. The language was ugly and fierce, meant to frighten and coerce, but it only served to bring out her stubborn nature. Maybe it was foolish, but her time being intimate with this mutant had shown her a side that he kept well-hidden most of the time. It was a rare, and she had to admit, beautiful sight, when he let those walls fall away; exposing a vulnerability and even a tenderness that stole her breath away.

Her eyes bounced between his as she met his glare with an unflinching returning stare.

"What are you talking about?" she ground out.

The door to her apartment swung open and another stepped out from the storm. Raphael wheeled around as Leonardo entered like a black demon in his dark coat. He strode inside and faltered for just a second as his gaze flitted between Raphael and her.

Karai braced a hand against her heart without realizing it as her stomach knotted. Fear left her quivering and her legs would not take her weight so she remained seated. From the corner of her eye, she saw Raphael tense.  _What the hell was going on?_

 _"Get away from her."_ The command was issued low and even but he might as well have screamed it.

"What the hell are you doin' here, Leo?" he asked, but his face turned to Karai who couldn't meet his stare so full of accusations.

Neither had known about the other, she had been so careful. Her palms grew cold and sweaty. Her game had come to its conclusion. The only conclusion that could have been. Karai closed her eyes and prayed that whichever one decided to kill her made it quick and clean.

"Why aren't you lookin' for Mikey?"

"How dare you ask me that when I find you here," Leonardo said, more growling than actual words.

"I'm interrogatin' Karai." He pointed to the side of his skull, "Or maybe your addled brain don't remember, but uh, her and her goons were there last night. I was askin' to see if she ordered him caught."

Leonardo's face snapped to Karai.

He, too, looked battered. One of his eyes was swollen badly beneath his bandana. Something stirred in the back of Karai's mind, warning her that the two brother's wounds were not unrelated to one another. There was an expression in his face, a tight, pinched look around his eyes. He was holding himself together by fraying threads. He couldn't know.  _Could he?_

"Well?" he choked out.

Karai licked her lower lip and her eyes shifted between them. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said carefully.

Leo stared at her as Raph eyed him, fidgeting with his fists as though itching to throw one at Leonardo's face.

"Michelangelo went missing after . . . our encounter last night. We suspected you or your men had something to do with it."

Karai nodded in understanding. "No," she replied with finality. "I would not order such a thing, you know that, Leonardo."

At her speaking his name so softly in reassurance to what she had promised him once: that she would not directly order any of his brothers captured while still allowing battles to take place and the appearance of doing everything she could to eliminate them as a façade out of respect to the older turtle and keeping up her allegiance to her father,

Leonardo relaxed slightly. Raphael on the other hand, thrummed with fury where he stood.

"And if one of you were captured, I would have been told immediately. My men are . . ." she faltered a little as her mind went to Malcolm. The weasel of a man who seemed strangely intent on trying to capture the turtles. She brushed the thought away as ridiculous. He wasn't capable of capturing one of these skilled mutants. He hadn't even reported in today, most likely stayed home nursing the wounds from his punishment she ordered him to have like the infant he was. There was no way he could have orchestrated an elaborate trap and executed it right under her nose and kept that a secret. Surely, he would have gloated about his victory and would have come sniveling to her for his rewards. "My men are loyal to me," she finished.

Raphael made a snorting noise at the word 'loyal'. "You sure you know the meanin' of that word, Karai?" he asked snidely and Leonardo tilted his head slightly, concentrating on her as if he expected her to answer.

Karai played dumb, ignoring the jibe and the strangely intense look on Leonardo's face. If they were looking for their younger brother, then perhaps they did not know about each other's roles in her personal life. She had to be careful. But perhaps the game was still in play.

Leonardo suddenly gave a stunted bow and turned to leave, "Let's go, Raph."

"I ain't done here."

Leonardo froze. "I said, let's go."

Raphael ignored him. "So, Karai, I think there's something that maybe you'd like to tell Fearless while we're all so cozy in the same room together."

Karai looked at him, a flash of panic washed over her face. "I-I don't . . ."

Raphael tilted his head. He narrowed his eyes. "I think it might be a good idea to set things straight, don't you?"

There was a sort of desperate gleam in his eye that she did not like.

"'Cuz somethin' come up and I'm under the impression that my big brother still has some sorta crush on you, like before."

Karai couldn't help herself. Her eyes shot to Leo where he stood with his back to them. His shoulders slumped slightly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raphael looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Well? Tell 'em," he snapped.

"I think you should go." She stood up and Raphael took one step back, a look of incomprehension on his face. "You have a brother to find. Why are you wasting your time here?"

"Oh, we'll find, Mikey. Don't you worry about that. All I need is for you to tell my big brother what's going on. 'Cuz I think he's confused about somethin'."

"Leave it, Raph," Leonardo said curtly, still not looking at them.

"No, I ain't leavin' until she tells you. I want you to hear it from her own lips."

Karai's stomach sank.

"Tell 'em."

Karai stared at Raph. Raph looked more distressed by the second. "Tell 'em, Karai."

She dropped her gaze.

"Fine. I'll start." He grabbed Karai by the arm and pulled her roughly to him.

Leonardo looked over his shoulder at the action and turned slowly around.

"Karai is with me, Leo. With me. Got it. We been seein' each other for months."

Leonardo's eyes locked with Karai's. She felt her cheeks flush as the disappointment and hurt flooded his eyes. His shoulders dropped even further as if all the air in his lungs had just fled from his body. He looked tired, then. Exhausted and weary. Her heart began to pound and she wanted to go to him. She shrugged free from Raphael's grasp and pushed at him. He didn't move an inch.

"Good for you," Leo said softly and moved to leave.

"What?" Raphael asked, oblivious. "It's the truth isn't it? He needed ta hear you were done with him. You're mine."

"You're a fool," she snarled, forgetting her precarious position. "You know nothing!"

She only wanted to run to Leonardo and explain. Explain that, yes, she had been seeing Raphael on the side but he meant nothing to her. That she had found herself growing more and more attached to him. That he was the one she actually wanted. Raphael was simply a distraction from the tedium and boredom that was her life.

Raphael narrowed his eyes. He closed in on her. "What do you mean, I don't know nothin'."

Leonardo paused in the doorway. His voice was strained, "Leave it, Raph."

Raphael looked at Leo's form in the doorway, silhouetted by the white swirling storm just beyond his black shape. A terrible feeling that he was missing something obvious hit him and his worst fears were slowly surfacing. By inches, he turned his face back to Karai.

"Tell him you're with me, Karai," he said and the pleading note was there, beneath the aggression.

"I won't," she said stupidly.

She was in his vice-like grip so fast, she didn't even have time to gasp.

"Tell him," he said, voice laced with panic. "You're with me, Karai. You've been with me for months. You hear that, Fearless?" he choked out, still staring at Karai. "She chose me, not you.  _Me_."

He gave Karai a little shake and she bit back against the whimper that issued from her throat. It felt like he was about to snap her bones, he was holding her so tightly.

"We've been together, a lot," he emphasized. "Ain't that right, Karai? Tell him! Tell him how you begged me to take you that first time, months ago, outside, against the wall."

Karai shook her head, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

"Let her go, right now," Leonardo's voice was next to his ear, a blade gleamed in the dim light, next to his eye.

Raphael rolled his gaze to meet his brother standing next to him. "Get that outta my face, bro. I don't want to have to hurt you again." Raphael released Karai who stumbled backwards, rubbing at her aching arms.

Leonardo backed off, but only slightly as he saw Karai was released. Then he swept his sword back into the sheath on his back.

Leonardo's voice was hushed and hoarse, "I'm not going to fight you. Not over her. Not ever again."

Karai made a soft noise.

"There's nothin' to fight about. Karai is mine. She . . . She wants me." Raphael looked at her and now there was desperation plainly on his face.

Guilt slid a knife in her gut.

"I just want you to tell him. Why don't you say something? _Tell him!_ " he roared.

"There is nothing. To say," she panted and watched the fury be replaced by a crushed look collapsing within Raphael's eyes. Then she looked at Leonardo and their eyes locked before Leonardo turned away. She moved past Raphael and reached out to him, towards his face and chest as he was turning.

Leo tilted his body slightly away, avoiding all contact with her.

"Don't," he said softly.

"Leonardo. Let me explain," she pleaded.

Raphael made a strangled noise then. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her backwards. She stumbled from the force of it and fell onto the sofa with a grunt. Leonardo ghosted from the room, leaving Raph, chest heaving staring at the space he'd been in a moment before. He looked over his shoulder, green eyes glassy with hurt, painted in betrayal.

"Why?" he asked in a strained voice. "If you still . . . if you wanted him, then why did you . . ." he couldn't articulate the rest. It hurt too much. It hurt so much. What a fool he'd been to not see. He rushed to the doorway; meaning to run away from it; bracing a hand on either side; shoulders pinched; his feet wouldn't go any further. He needed to know. Head down, he asked the floor, "Was there anything . . . was there anything more between us than just . . ."

One red-rimmed eye crept over a wide shoulder.

Karai, miserable, realizing she had just about lost them both, that the game had come to a close, could not bring herself to lie to him. She shook her head once then closed her eyes.

Raphael stared at her, letting her wordless reply sink into his mind, his heart, his bones. He slowly nodded to himself.

"I see. It was always Leo, then."

His hands curled into fists and the next moment he was gone. Karai dropped her face into her hands. Her mind raced. She couldn't lose Leonardo. There had to be a way to make this up to him. For some reason, Malcolm once again surfaced in her mind. She straightened up and wiped her face, finding her fingertips coming away wet. She stood on wavering legs and went to the telephone.

# # #

The snow was now a curtain of billowing white, but Raph didn't need to see. He could sense him up ahead. Raphael dug his frigid feet deep into the snow and peeled off into a run. In a few minutes he was on his brother, barreling into him.

He grabbed Leonardo by the shoulders, balling his fists tightly in the black fabric of his coat. He spun his brother, nearly lifting him off his feet and slammed him into the bricks. Leonardo's head jerked back and he hissed in pain.

"You bastard! Why didn't you say somethin'?!" Raphael screamed into his face.

Leonardo crunched his face up, closing his eyes then said, "There was nothing to say."

Raphael pulled him close then slammed him into the wall again. "Bullshit!  _Bullshit_! I want the truth! How long have you been fucking her? Huh!? I told you the truth back there, you lying sack of shit! Now you spill!"

He slammed him again and Leonardo brought his left fist around, striking Raph square in the jaw. Raph shook it off, keeping tight his grip on his brother's lapels.

"Answer me! You fuck! You lying _fuck_!" he screamed as he slammed his brother relentlessly into the wall until Leonardo gripped Raph by the head and forced his thumbs into his brother's eyes. Stubbornly, Raph didn't yield until finally with a strangled yelp he backed off. He crouched, rubbing his eyes frantically while Leo stumbled to the side, trying his best to catch his breath and make the world stop spinning in his pounding head.

# # #

The wine was spilled, the spreading crimson stained the floor in a wide flood. Her hair was silken smooth in his calloused fingers. It was like no other feeling in the world. She kissed him and her insistent arms pulled at him. Her body begged him,  _closer, come closer._  Her lips whispered lies into his ear. Lies he devoured and drank, becoming drunk off each syllable.

_"I want you, Leonardo. Only you. Forever you. Take me, Leonardo."_

He wanted her. Yes. He ached for her. He was drowning in her intoxicating scent of her skin, her hair, her lips, and her arousal.

It was painful to do, but he inched away, each movement costing him more and more dearly. But he couldn't. Not yet. It wasn't right. She still worked for the Foot Clan. He had responsibilities. He couldn't lie to his father. He would deny himself this, for now. Until he couldn't any longer. And then? He would have to wait and see. But he knew he wouldn't be able to resist her forever.

She already featured prominent in his thoughts, in his heated dreams. She was the queen of his imaginings. It was Karai, only Karai. He wouldn't be able to resist this magnetic force forever. But tonight he had the strength and he fled from the heat between their bodies, the lustful yearning blazed through his bones as he crept away.

Her breathy words changed to softly uttered protests, then fell into shocked silence as he backed away towards the window and then slipped into the night. One shadow returning to the all-encompassing darkness of the night.

# # #

Raphael screamed and punched both fists into the snow. His anguish pierced Leonardo's thoughts, bringing him back to the moment. He rubbed the back of his head.

"How long?"

"Raph," Leonardo said and shook his head.

He didn't want to say anything to him. His heart felt like it had just been torn to ribbons. He felt raw and turned inside out.

The world was an ugly place and he was a beast at the center. Revolted and despised. He didn't want to hate his younger brother. No. He only hated himself at the moment. For being a fool. For chasing something that he never had a right to dream he could possess. Love was not for monsters. Love belonged only to the beautiful humans that walked the surface and luxuriated in the sunlight like miniature gods. The shadows belonged to him and his brothers. Where the demons belonged.

"Let's get back and see what Don has come up with," he said between catching his breath.

Raphael stared at him. There was so much hatred in that look that Leonardo swept his eyes away.

"I can't believe you." Raphael laughed and it was a wicked sound; mirthless and terrible. "You just don't get it." He shook his head, staring ahead of himself and huffed. "Yeah, you win. Again, big bro. As usual, you're better than me. Right? You even get the girl. B-But . . . But I still fucked her, too," he lashed out. His bitter words spat from his mouth, "The love of your life is a little  _whore_. Do you hear me? She's a . . . a  _slut_!"

Leonardo felt his already spent hold on his control slipping. But then as he stepped towards where his younger brother knelt in the snow, ready to pummel him into silence, he saw the tears staining his face. The sight brought him to a stuttering halt. Stunned into immobility, he suddenly made out the agony in Raphael's tone.

Raphael pitched forward and cursed a string of swear words into the ground; fingers clawing at the snow; uselessly.

Leonardo's fists relaxed and he stood in the center of the storm with his brother whose suffering was loud and agonized; it matched the pain that was raging within him; silent and debilitating.

After Raphael screamed and cursed until his voice was gone, Leonardo moved to help him up.

Raphael slapped his hands away. "The  _fuck_  off me," he croaked.

Leonardo stared up into the swirling storm. The snow made a vortex and not for the first time that night, Leonardo wished he could be sucked up and disintegrated into the snowstorm. Let it shred him and disperse him like the dazzling flakes spinning around him.

"We've wasted enough time. Let's see what Donnie's found."

"Fuck you."

Together they headed back to the lair, both feeling hollow and sick, drained and broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you, yeah, you! I just want to thank you guys/gals so very much for being so devoted to this story. Your reviews and PMs have been so inspiring and honestly, I get really choked up when I think too long about how much you guys/gals support me. There is no better feeling in the world than seeing those reviews. Getting to answer questions and connect with my readers is an experience like nothing else and I enjoy every minute.
> 
> Please know that if you've never contacted me, it's okay, I just want you to know I appreciate you reading/following. Don't ever feel nervous to drop me a note. If you ever want advice or just wanna chat about TMNT talk to me! And if you send me a message and I don't get back to you give me a little boot in the bottom. I swear, it takes a lot to rile me up despite my grim stories, lol
> 
> We get back to Malcolm and Mikey in the next chapter, so hang tight to those little tails, er, butts! I love you guys! In a healthy way, not in a Malcolm way, LOL
> 
> (p.s. that song was on as I wrote Raph's hearbreak, but I was thinking of it from Leo's POV)


	9. Time, The Enemy

_"Already cold, cold mind_   
_And death is at your doorstep_   
_And it will steal your innocence_   
_But it will not steal your substance_

_But you are not alone in this_   
_And you are not alone in this_

_As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand."_ -Timshel, by Mumford and Sons

* * *

Splinter stepped up to greet them as Leonardo and Raphael returned home. 

When Donatello had come back, he said nothing to his Sensei, only informed him that his brothers were still looking and then had gone into his lab. Nerves frayed, Splinter had paced and paced; fighting back the panic; daring to hope that Leonardo would surely not fail in retrieving Michelangelo; ah, his youngest son, still so child-like despite his age. 

Leonardo would not fail him. No. He would bring the child home so that they could mend any wounds that he had sustained. He would tell them a harrowing story of being captured and fighting valiantly as Splinter knew his youngest would fight. His fiery, joy-filled heart would not succumb to the torment he endured at the hands of his captors.

Splinter was sure that Michelangelo's spirit would be undaunted in the face of evil. He had to believe that. Because the darker thoughts, the bleak reality of what men were capable of doing to innocents, of what they took pleasure in doing to those that were different or gentle natured . . . that would only serve to make him lose the tentative grasp on control that he was clinging to. 

So, when he heard the gears turn and the entrance open, his heart soared with the expectation of seeing his youngest child returned.

Raphael, face down, would not meet his eyes. Scarf in his hands, he tossed it in a pile near the door. Splinter looked past him as Raphael strode silently into the kitchen, sniffling softly once he thought he was out of his father's hearing. 

Leonardo came in, shrugging his coat from his shoulders and hanging it on a peg near the door. Splinter stared at him a moment longer, allowing what he was seeing to penetrate the denial. Leonardo. He was alone. He did not succeed in bringing their brother home. Leonardo had failed him. Had failed his brother, again. 

Splinter, fighting the wrenching disappointment that clawed at his insides, slammed his cane down. Leonardo turned, an attentive, yet fearful expression on his battered face before he straightened and dropped into a bow.

"Why have you returned empty handed?"

Leonardo stood up at his father's words. His heart was pounding uncomfortably in his chest. His stomach was churning and he felt he was going to be sick. He was still reeling from the discovery that Karai had been sleeping with his brother behind his back. That she had led him to believe that she was falling in love with him and, so foolishly, he had begun to love her back. 

No, that wasn't exactly right. He was a bigger fool than even that. 

He had loved her since he'd first met her, years ago. When he was little more than a young mutant himself. Leonardo didn't understand what he'd done to make her turn to his younger, hot-tempered, brother. He couldn't help but think his continual denial of indulging physically with her was the reason he had lost her. And the thought crushed him. 

He had only wanted to do the right thing. The honorable thing. And now, with his youngest brother missing, his other brother despising him for something he could not control, he felt as if the world was crumbling all around him. Every way he turned he was letting his loved ones down.

His father's eyes were blazing with disappointment and anger. He felt the gaze like twin beams cutting directly into his aching heart. He moved cautiously deeper into the living room of the lair where Splinter stood gripping the top of his cane in both hands.

"Answer me," he barked and Leonardo flinched. Before Leo could articulate anything, Splinter continued, "The night is still upon us. Why are you here instead of searching for Michelangelo?" The bitter note in his voice was deepening and Splinter was having an even harder time controlling his anger.

"M-Master Splinter . . . we searched everywhere we could think of . . . the docks, the abandoned warehouses the Foot sometimes use, the alley where he was last seen . . . Th-The snow has covered any tracks, making it nearly impossible-"

"Do not speak to me of impossibilities when your brother is still out there!"

He was right. His father was always right. Shame coated his fluttering heart in tar. It was getting hard to breathe. He could not have failed his family more if he'd tried. Leonardo snapped his mouth shut and dropped his chin as Raphael emerged from the kitchen. An ice pack pressed against the side of his face.

Raphael shot a glare in Leonardo's direction, over Master Splinter's head. Leonardo didn't meet his gaze. His lip curled in disgust. It was for the best. He found just looking at Leo made him want to beat the shit out of him. He never got a straight answer from him about whether or not he was screwing her, too, but Raphael guessed it didn't really matter. Still, he really wanted to know how much of a fool he actually had been. 

Fury twisted in his gut at the idea that Leonardo might have been with her in that way, though deep down inside, he knew that it wasn't really his brother's fault that Karai had used him. Deep down he knew it was all he was ever good for. Whether fighting the enemy or a sorry attempt at having an actual relationship with someone, it was his body, his strength, that was required, nothing else. 

Nothing else of him was worth anything. His mind and his heart were useless and unnecessary. Someone like him didn't get emotionally connected because it wasn't expected for him to have any feelings other than primal, instinctual urges. 

Sleep, eat, kill, rut. Like a fucking animal. Tears, to his astonishment, blurred his vision and his heart pinched sharply in his tight chest.

Hell, if he looked at it a different way, he should be on his knees thanking Karai for even letting someone like him touch her like that. Even if he was just being used. An image of her milky white body spread out beneath him flooded his mind. Her soft hands trailing along his arms, her slender legs entwining with his; the murmuring whispers in his ear to go faster; her sharp cries of pleasure that he thought were for him alone.  _Oh god._  

He pinched his eyes closed. Just thinking about her made his heart clench painfully. He wanted that to stop. The caring. The hurt that still caring was causing. Somewhere between the sheets, between the murmured pleas and the incredible joy of physically loving a woman, he had fallen. _Hard_.

He was a damn fool to ever allow himself to open up like he did. He should have known that he was just being played. He had just wanted to believe . . . for one moment . . . that at last, someone wanted him; wanted to know him; to love him. 

The pain in his chest came again and he coughed roughly. His head was pounding. He eased himself into the couch and had just settled when Splinter wheeled around.

"And you! Why aren't you hunting the men who have your brother?"

Raphael sat forward immediately. He dropped the ice pack between his legs. "I won't give up, Master." He started to explain that they'd come back to check on what Donatello may have discovered, but he didn't have the chance.

Master Splinter spun around on his heel, turning his back to Raphael as if to say to him that he didn't wish to hear any more from him. Raphael dropped his head. He should be used to this by now, for it was always this way. His thoughts were not needed. Only his strength when the time came. The only one whose words and promises mattered to his father was Leonardo. But it stung, more so from the pain he was already struggling with from learning that Karai never cared about him. That she was using him. Like everyone else.

He swore under his breath and lobbed the ice pack across the room. It hit the screen of the television set with a loud crack and he dropped his head into his hands. He drew in a ragged breath and then another. He decided right then that if he started to cry he'd punch himself in the face until he stopped. If he had to beat this weakness out of him, that's what he'd do.

Suddenly his aching heart twisted with a desperate longing for his little brother. He just wanted Michelangelo home. He was a pain in the ass, but he always had a way of making Raphael feel better. About himself, about life in general. Things weren't so bad somehow whenever Mikey was around. It was like he brought some kind of invisible shield with him that surrounded whoever he was near. It protected the people he loved, sometimes even from themselves.

Michelangelo was the only one that genuinely seemed to not only like hanging around with him, but wanted to on a regular basis. When Mikey was near him, Raphael felt the dark edges of his personality roll back. The light from his little brother's spirit would chase those shadows away. The only time Raphael laughed, really, truly laughed from the center of his body, was when he was with Mikey.

"Where are you, kid," he murmured to himself and stared out into the center of the room.

Splinter was looking at Leonardo who stood rigidly, blinking at the floor with a helpless expression that was driving Splinter into a seething fury. He was shouting now, fear for his youngest son's safety was blurring his perspective and fueling his rage.

"Are these the men I have raised? The ninja? Your brother is still missing and you come home because the snow is  _deep_?  _Unacceptable_!" He strode forward and grabbed Leonardo harshly by the arm, turning him roughly around and shoving him forward. "You are the leader of this clan! You will not be deterred by the weather! What example are you setting for you brothers!?"

"I-I'm sorry, Master. I-I . . ."

"I do not want apologies! _I want my son returned to me!_ " He gripped his staff in two claws and held it horizontally, striking Leonardo in the shell, urging him back towards the door. "Go! Do not come home until you have him. Do you understand me!? Do _not_ come back here, until you have him!"

Leonardo stumbled forward, nodding and reaching for his coat as Splinter shoved him again. "H-Hai, Sensei. I will. I promise."

"Wait," came a soft voice from across the room.

Leonardo hesitated and turned just as Splinter whirled around. "Donatello, what have you found?" Splinter's voice was strained and light with fearful hope.

"I just searched every corner of Michelangelo's room. I think he has his cell on him."

Raphael looked up from where he sat. He stood. "And?"

"You can find him, er, track him, yes?" Splinter asked.

Donatello nodded and held a device in both hands. "I've modified all our phones with a simple tracking hardware. If he has his phone on him, it will locate him. As long as he isn't too far from us," Donatello added, looking at each of them in turn. He didn't want to get their hopes up too high. Nothing was ever fool-proof. Human error aside, machines did not always give the expected results despite hours and hours of sweat and painstaking effort. 

He punched in the code and waited with his breath held. Splinter took a step towards him.

Donatello frowned as the screen lit up. He turned slightly, holding the device up in front of him. Then strode forward. 

Raphael leaped to one side as he walked by him. Leonardo twisted the material of his coat between his hands. The look on his face was one of desperate hope. 

Donatello's expression dropped as he moved to stand next to the couch. Then it was as though all the air fled from his body as both shoulders slumped. He dropped his arms to his sides.

Raphael and Leonardo exchanged looks that spoke of hope and fear. It was the first time they had directly looked at each other since fighting outside Karai's apartment. Donatello was just standing there. Neither of them found the strength to ask what was wrong. As though speaking would somehow destroy their chances that Don had figured out a sure-fire way to locate their missing brother.

Donatello closed his eyes. As if the action could make the terrible truth disappear. With the thumb of the hand holding the tracking device, he depressed a button. 

The lair fell into complete stillness. The empty hollowed out silence that waited to be filled either with the sound of joyous triumph or despairing defeat stretched on. Distantly, a noise started then repeated. Everyone except Donatello jumped and looked around, baffled.

With a swift, smooth move, Donatello drove his free hand into the couch, deep between the cushions and the arm rest. With an anguished, abrupt cry he pulled something out. Something gripped in his shaking fist; knuckles pale with tension. Something ringing softly. He stared down at it with his chest heaving and an expression of revulsion and horror on his face. 

Raphael swore loudly at the ceiling. Leonardo dropped his head.

Splinter looked on; confused, but also denying with all his heart what he couldn't accept. "What . . . What is . . . Is that Michelangelo's phone?"

Donatello raised his eyes. They were twin pools of misery. His voice was strained and he barely managed to choke the answer out.

"Yes."

# # #

Malcolm had spent the night in the house looming over the underground bunker where Michelangelo lay in a near coma-like state. Malcolm awoke to the golden rays of the morning's light. He jumped up and moved into the bathroom. Minutes later he was under the gushing water; singing his favorite song, _Dream Lover_. His voice rose and cracked as he sang with all the gusto of an opera star on opening night. 

He felt good. Really good. He scrubbed his hair and the water rinsed the suds free as he shivered with the exquisite feel of them running down his back. The tendrils of soap stung the healing wounds from the whipping he had endured, but Malcolm was riding a high that could not be deterred by some simple stinging pain. His elation held his perception far above the experience.

Taking Michelangelo had been a dream come true. He really was his  _Dream Lover_. As he knew they were destined to become. It had been the most glorious moment of his life. And the best part, he thought with giddy glee, was that they were just getting started. 

He leaned down and turned off the shower. He wrapped the towel around him and whistled as he wiped the fog from the mirror. He smiled widely at his reflection and gave himself a cheeky wink.

"We are going to have so much fun together," he said to himself, imagining the look of happiness on Michelangelo's face that would be there the next time he saw him. For he surely felt as elated, as wonderful, as Malcolm did at this moment. 

The man spun on the toes of one foot. He set about getting dressed. He had decided he'd make himself a wonderful breakfast. Oh how he loved pancakes. He knew there was a small drugstore not too far from the docks that he could pick up what he needed. He'd searched the house before he went to bed last night, noting that while it was stocked with some of the essentials that the soldiers who used this place would need, there were some things missing. 

One thing in particular, a pair of large scissors. Good, strong ones . . .

# # #

Hours later, a bird landed near the barred window of the young mutant's cell. It sang merrily before hopping once, leaving light impressions in the fresh snow before flitting off in search of seed.

Michelangelo distantly registered the notes and for a moment he was relieved to hear such a pretty sound. He wanted to wake up. But it was hard. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. He hurt all over and wondered what had happened to him. 

But something was urging him to awaken. Not just the sweet sound of the little bird singing from somewhere above him, but the muffled voices of his brothers in the back of his mind. He wanted to tell them that the needed ten more minutes, but he couldn't voice the words that formed in his fuzzy mind. His head felt like it weighed too much to lift. His eyelids were heavy and crusted over, making opening them difficult. 

Awareness came over him as his mind slowly cleared. His aching body was shaking. He felt so cold his body burned with it. His limbs felt overly large and clumsy. It was hard to move them.

Swallowing was harder. His tongue felt thick and coated in cotton. There was an acidic, salty taste in his mouth; bitter and nauseating. He moved his tongue and started to cough and choke. The rough motion sent pain lancing through his abdomen and bottom. Bright pain flared through his lower region and that's when the memory of what had happened to him crashed down.

His eye went wide, the other was still closed and pressed into the sticky side of the plastic covered mattress. He made a choked noise and struggled with flailing limbs to right himself. His normally agile and athletic body reacted with blundering, slow movements. What the hell was wrong with him? It took him several attempts to right himself to just sit up and when he did, the pain in his bottom made him hiss and fall to one side, bracing his weight on one hip. 

Whimpering softly, he hazarded a glance between his legs. His tail was swollen and laying at an odd angle. It was a strange purplish color and it was spattered with blood and something sticky. He tried to move it and was rewarded with a sharp, electric pain that raced up his spine and down through his legs.

"Oh. _Oh, god_ ," he hissed through gritted teeth.

His stomach rolled and he heaved as he fell forward onto his elbows. He retched and gagged, shaking with the pain that these motions caused him, but he couldn't stop. Just as he couldn't stop the flood of memories from crashing into him. The feel of Malcolm on top of his shell; his hand gripping Mikey's throat . . . then that other part . . . the part that went inside of him. 

The word he didn't want to think rose up in his mind. The ugly word. The shameful word. Malcolm had used him. He had done something terrible to him. Raped him.  _He raped me_ , Michelangelo thought and gave an agonized sob into the crook of his elbow and the mattress. He shuddered and hot tears of shame and horror seared down the sides of his face.

_How did that happen to me? Why didn't I fight him off? Why am I such a weakling?_  

He punched the mattress with a fist that wouldn't tighten more than a little. Even his fingers felt thick and useless. A new thought sent chills of fright and anxiety through him: What will his brothers think? Will they believe that he couldn't prevent what happened? How will they take it, the fact that he was so weak, that he was held down and . . . and taken? 

He was supposed to be ninja. A warrior. They'd never look at him the same. He choked out a dry sob at the unfairness of it all and started to gag again.

After a few moments, he did his best to beat back the dread.  _Gotta calm down. Master Splinter would tell me to stay calm. Not to panic._  Thinking of his father sent a terrible homesickness through him. He whined and sniffled between shallow breaths. He blinked, staring at the crinkled plastic under him. His mouth was filled with dried blood. His tongue worked between bouts of coughing. Ugh. He was so thirsty. 

He raised his tear-stained face and looked around. No surprise, Malcolm had left him with nothing but the pain to sustain himself with. His sickened stomach had the nerve to growl and cramp; reminding him that he hadn't eaten now in days. But the terrible thirst was more demanding. His throat ached for something, anything to drink.

He absentmindedly brought his hand close to his mouth. As a child, Michelangelo had a habit of sucking his thumb. Master Splinter had not approved and had worked hard to break him of the dependent habit. It had taken a long time, and sometimes Master Splinter had to resort to somewhat cruel techniques to hammer home the fact that sucking one's thumb was a weak thing to do and not something a ninja warrior ever indulged in. 

But sometimes, when he was very sick, or very tired, Mikey had developed a compromise between letting his father down and needing to do the simple motion of self-comfort, he would gently nibble and suck at the knuckle of his finger on his right hand. He did that now, without even realizing it, he worked his bottom teeth along the side of his finger and suckled at the top until some saliva built and he was able to swallow, easing his need for water, but only somewhat.

He lay like that, for a while, gnawing gently at his knuckle and sucking on it before the door creaked open, pouring light into the dim interior. A spike of terror went through Mikey and he scrambled as quickly as he could into the corner, doing his best to ignore the pain radiating from his bottom. The chain rattled. The collar pulled against the front of his throat and he winced. The stairs groaned as Malcolm came down.

He looked around and upon spotting Michelangelo huddled in the corner a wide smile spread across his face. "You're up! That's wonderful!" he exclaimed in a cheerful voice that belied the fact that he had drugged then assaulted the young mutant last night. He had a shoe box in his hands and Mikey felt a tremor of fear shake him. "I was a little worried that I gave you too much GHB. You have to be careful with that stuff. Just a little too much and well, I'll just make sure to measure a bit more precisely for now on."

Mikey wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he had a suspicion it had something to do with the reason he felt so heavy and slow. The guy had drugged him! The rotten bastard! 

He continued talking as if they were neighbors running across each other on their way to work. Mikey started to sweat, watching him warily.

"I've got a lot to do today, and I'm already in trouble for not checking in this morning, so I can't stay long. I just want to see something." He crossed the room and set the box on the table. When he turned around, he held a long pair of scissors in his hand.

Mikey felt his stomach shrink and roll in icy fright at the sight. What were those for? 

He started to tremble. 

Malcolm walked slowly towards him, then crouched on the side of the mattress. He gestured for Michelangelo to come closer. 

Mikey stared at him with an incredulous look. He wanted to scream and curse at the madman, but had learned quickly that that would only serve to bring him pain and he was in enough pain at the moment as it was. He swallowed dryly and began to choke. His parched throat ached and his bottom throbbed, but he pressed himself tighter into the corner.

Malcolm frowned. "I said come here."

Still coughing, Mikey shook his head. His eyes were watering.

"Hey. What's the matter with you? Why are you coughing so much?"

Malcolm stood up. He stared at the little puffs of white air that ghosted in front of Michelangelo's face with each cough. A terrible thought hit him. What kind of lover was he? He should have realized how cold it got down here. Especially at night. What would he do if his sweetheart came down with a cold, lying here without a blanket? He would have to remember to bring one down the next time he had a chance.

Mikey's coughing became agonized, he retched and Malcolm jumped back as if he'd just been slapped.

" _Ugh_! Don't you dare vomit! You hear me! Don't do that! Don't do that!" He pointed the scissors at Mikey and snipped them open and closed.

Michelangelo winced and blinked up at him. He brought one hand to his throat and croaked,  _"Th-Thirsty."_

Malcolm stood there, staring at him in incomprehension for a few moments. Mikey writhed beneath the cold stare, suffering and coughing so hard it felt as if he was about to choke up a lung.

"You're thirsty?" Malcolm turned around and stared at the scissors in his hand. "Thirsty." He smacked his head with his free hand and started to laugh. "Thirsty!" He tossed the scissors onto the table and dug inside his duffle bag. "Why didn't you say something!? You're so cute!" he said with a shake of his head, "Thirsty. He's just a little thirsty." 

He retrieved a bottle of water and then took a step before stopping. He stared at the bottle in his hand as if thinking of something. Then he turned around and grabbed the scissors.

Mikey's eyes locked on the bottle of water in the man's hands and felt a terrible pang of need. His throat constricted and his fingers clawed at the mattress. He wanted that water almost as much as he wanted to escape from this place. A soft whimper squeezed from his dried throat as he leaned forward from the corner. 

Malcolm crouched and held the bottle out as he set the scissors on his lap. Michelangelo reached for the water and Malcolm pulled it away. Mikey's eyes snapped to him; first pleading and then hateful.

He was never one to really hate anyone. Even the Foot soldiers he battled. He didn't really  _hate_  them. He just didn't like them. The fact that they kept trying to hurt him and his brothers only helped him fight against them. But really, he just wished they would leave him and his family in peace. Was it so wrong to want to just be left alone?

He understood that Raph enjoyed fighting. He got some kind of rush or thrill from defeating his enemies and he often talked about how much he hated the Shredder and the Foot soldiers. Even Leonardo had said on more than one occasion that he hated them. And Donatello? Donatello hated anything that got in the way of his work.

Michelangelo didn't  _want_  to hate anyone if he could help it. It was an ugly emotion. A scary one. But in this moment, Michelangelo did feel hate. And it was a fire that blossomed into an inferno within him. 

He hated Malcolm for bringing him here, hated Malcolm for beating him, hated the man for using his body to hurt him and violate him. Hated him for possibly changing Mikey's relationship with his family forever. It was so unfair! What gave this human the right to hurt him like that? To take that from him? To change everything so drastically with one awful, evil act? He started to shake and glared at Malcolm with everything he had.

"Aw, don't look at me like that," Malcolm feigned sadness and pressed his fingers against his chest. "C'mon, I'm just going to open it for you." And Malcolm untwisted the lid.

Mikey watched his every movement cautiously. 

Malcolm held it out to him again, lid-free. 

With a hand that trembled, Mikey reached for it again. 

Malcolm's other hand shot out and gripped him by the wrist. Mikey winced at the contact and then growled as Malcolm tugged him forward out of the corner until he fell onto his stomach. His growl was cut short as he choked. His throat was too dry. He gagged and choked so hard it was getting hard to breathe. He writhed as Malcolm released his arm and moved around him to grab both his ankles. 

Somewhere beneath the pain and the anger, the desperation to breathe, panic flared like a flash of lightning in his heart, even brighter than his hatred. He tried to kick free, but couldn't. Malcolm easily flipped him around onto his shell. Mikey bucked and choked, shaking his head. His bruised eyes widened and rolled in wild terror.

_"N-Nnngh! N-No!"_

Malcolm held him firmly. "Calm down! Calm down . . . or no water for you."

Mikey's body went slack as the words hit him. Shaking and still coughing, he did his best to make his body stop struggling. But just the man touching him was making waves of revulsion and fright roll through him. His eyes went sideways to where Malcolm had left the bottle of water just out of reach. His throat constricted again as he dryly licked his cracked bottom lip.

"I just want to see . . ."

Malcolm eased Mikey's legs down. He knelt between them and gently pushed at his inner thighs, spreading his legs. 

Mikey's eyes went wide and he started to struggle again; the kicking motion caused streaks of pain to shoot up from Mikey's body into his middle, but he couldn't stop fighting if he wanted to. The man pinned his thighs down, securing him. He clenched his jaw and shook.

Malcolm's voice took on a flat even quality, "I mean it. No water if you don't hold still. There is an easy way and a hard way. I've warned you. I won't warn you again. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to see something."

Mikey closed his burning eyes with some effort, debating internally if he should risk this guy being anywhere near his lower region or if he had any chance of fighting him off. Thanks to the lingering effects of what Malcolm had given him, he felt shaky and weak and still couldn't manage to bring his hand into a tight fist. Besides, the man had overpowered him last night when he wasn't in so much pain, when he wasn't weak with fatigue and thirst, hunger and pain. What chance did he have against this man, now? 

Defeat dragged at him, wearing what was left of his will power down and in his mind, he held the key to his own destruction. He whimpered and forced himself to lay still. He was so thirsty. If this got him that water, then he could lay still.

"There, that wasn't so hard was it?" Malcolm said and began to stroke the tops of both of his thighs. "Mm," he said appreciating the firm, toned muscles, but his eyes were locked on the swollen appendage between his lover's legs. He ignored the sticky feel and the dried blood from his conquest of the mutant's body. It was as if he didn't even see the damage he had done. Usually so fastidious, Malcolm was focused solely on the battered appendage.

Malcolm reached out and took it gently in his hand. 

Mikey yelped and cringed, clenching his jaw and forcing himself to remain still. A tremor shook his body and Malcolm snickered. But then he grew serious as he examined Mikey's body. The man's fingers caressed the underside which was facing him with a disgusted expression. The only thing he saw was the offending tail. The tail that got in the way too much. The ugly thing sticking out of his body. No, he didn't like it at all. 

Mikey shuddered as he felt Malcolm touching his sensitive and aching body part.

"That looks like it hurts," Malcolm muttered, concern lacing his words.

Mikey bit his sore inner cheek.  _Just lay still,_ he needed to drink that water. He needed it on a primal level. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understood that it had been too long since he'd had anything to drink. He couldn't remember how long they said it took people to die of thirst, but he knew it happened quicker than dying from hunger.

" _Tsk, tsk_ , yikes. I bet that hurts, a lot. I should do something to help you."

He hefted the hot flesh and considered the thickness and size of it, then he glanced at his scissors. He wasn't entirely convinced they'd cut through the thick flesh, not to mention the bones. He eased it back down and slid back with the intention of giving Mikey the water for his reward for laying still. But then his eyes roved back to the apex of Mikey's legs.

"You're being such a good boy today," Malcolm said. "I think I know something that would make this all so much better."

Michelangelo cracked one eye open. He blinked several times and croaked, " _Water_ ," turning his head and staring with longing at the bottle. " _Please_." He hated himself for begging like a baby, but he was getting more desperate by the second.

The feel of Malcolm's cool fingers at his lower plastron plates had his body tensing. His face snapped back to Malcolm, who was intent on prodding his fingers into places they didn't belong. Mikey brought his legs together, but the man's body was between them. 

One finger slid into the hidden opening, pulling back the sinewy flap of skin concealing his masculinity. The very tip of him poked out. Malcolm made a delighted sound and stroked it with a fingertip. 

Mikey's eyes went wide and both hands reached down and gripped Malcolm's wrist, halting any further movement.

Malcolm's eyes rose by inches until they met his. "Let go of me."

Mikey shook his head.

Malcolm jabbed the knuckles of his free hand up with force into the space where Mikey's thick flesh was coiled neatly. Mikey gave a hoarse cry and hiss of pain. His hands faltered and Malcolm pulled his arm free.

"Bring it out."

Mikey was lost in the rippling pain from Malcolm's assault. There was a reason their bodies concealed the tender flesh beneath the thicker material of his lower plastron. It was to protect the sensitive reproductive organs so vulnerable in all males; acting as a sort of built-in cup like the human athletes wore.

"I want to see it."

The demand sunk in along with terror and disgust. Mikey shook his head, miserably. The collar rubbed against his raw flesh at his neck.  _No, no freaking way._   _Haven't you done enough to me?_  He edged away from Malcolm, using his elbows for leverage.

Malcolm crawled on his hands and knees and took the bottle of water. He sat back on his heels and tipped the water to his mouth, bringing his head back as he drank deeply. 

Michelangelo watched in horror as the liquid sparkled in the dim light and Malcolm's Adam's apple bobbed with the large gulps.

" _P-Please,"_  Mikey pleaded and this time he was too desperate to care that he was begging this nut case.

Malcolm wiped his mouth and considered the bottle of water, now half-full. He glanced at Mikey.

"I don't have time to waste. I was going to do something nice for you, but  _again_ , and I don't know  _why_ , you insist on making everything so difficult." He stared at Michelangelo, propped on his elbows shaking and looking exhausted, beaten and frightened. He felt a pang of protectiveness. "C'mon," he urged softly, leaning forward. "Just bring it out for me. You won't regret it."

Mikey shook his head again. Stubbornly refusing to play along with the sick-o. There was no way he was willingly going to expose himself to this evil jerk. His mind pictured the scissors that Malcolm had brought down there with him and he had to swallow back the acidic bile that rose in the back of his throat along with the sickening fear.

With a sneer, Malcolm leaned forward and with a jerk of his hand, splashed some of the frigid water at Mikey's face. 

He jumped and quailed, shivering. Unable to help himself, his tongue darted out, trying to lap up some of the drips that trailed along his chin. His trembling turned to shaking as he wiped his face with the back of his hand and then pressed his dry tongue against his moist flesh.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes as his face darkened when all of a sudden he tipped his face to the ceiling. "Oh! I get it," he said suddenly and relaxed. He gave a hearty laugh. His face came back to level a mischievous look at the terrified mutant boy. He wagged a finger at Mikey. "But I don't have time for your games, you little tease."

Malcolm dug into a pocket in the front of his uniform. He produced a small pill and dropped it into the mouth of the bottle. He swirled the water, then threw the bottle to the side of the mattress and Mikey cried out at the loss as some of the remaining water spilled. Malcolm climbed to his feet. The scissors clattered to the floor at the foot of the mattress.

"I know you want me to fuck you again." He put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. He made a soft huff of laughter. "I know it's hard when you want something so bad. I just wanted to touch you a bit, but you have to be  _so_  greedy."

Mikey dropped his reddened face into his arm. Disgust and horror filled him. That wasn't what he wanted. He never wanted Malcolm to do that to him. Never again. He'd rather die first. He just wanted some water. Hidden from view, he desperately lapped at the few precious drips he found on the mattress near his mouth. It did nothing but deepen his thirst.

"Ah, but that's just like you, isn't it? Living life to the fullest! Well, we're going to talk about being considerate lovers, Mikey. We're going to talk about what happens to greedy little teases." 

He shoved his hands into his pockets and with a sigh said, "I'll be back in a few hours. Maybe if I have a good day, I'll come back and treat you nice. But you're going to have to do your part and bring that out for me," he said in a nearly sing-song tone. But then his face darkened and his voice dropped, "Or I'm going to force it out. Permanently," he added and a thrill of terror went through Mikey.

Malcolm crossed the room and strode up the stairs. At the very top, he hesitated and said, "Oh yes. And we're going to have to take care of that tail. I'll need to find some garden shears . . . and a large rubber band, I think."

As the door closed behind him, Mikey scrambled to the edge of the cot. He stretched his arm out until the collar choked him so much he squinted his eyes closed. His fingertips brushed at the bottle, spinning it and then it rolled further out of reach. The world seemed to collapse around him. This was just too much.

"N-No, please.  _Please_. God!"

He stretched and stopped, panting and starting to cough again. What could he do? What would Donnie do? He closed his eyes and imagined his intelligent brother; he'd always come up with a solution to problems. Mikey just needed to think. If he had longer arms he would be able to reach the bottle. Then an idea hit him. 

He shifted his body and though it pained him to move his legs this way, he stretched out his leg and using his foot, he knocked the bottle closer. He snapped his arm out and grabbed the bottle.

"Yes! Oh, _yes_!" he hoarsely cried.

He brought it to his mouth but hesitated. Malcolm had dropped something into it. Mikey stared at the water mournfully. There was barely two swallows in the bottle, but his throat was hurting so much . . .

_Don't be a weakling_ , Raph's voice snarled in his head.

_Don't do it, Mikey, be smart_ , Donatello snapped.

_I'll save you, Mikey. Be strong_ , Leonardo's voice whispered.

But it didn't matter, because none of it was real. He  _was_  weak. He  _wasn't_  smart and he couldn't be  _strong_. Not now. Not after what Malcolm had done to him. Besides, he was sure he was dying of thirst. 

He brought the bottle to his lips with a whimper and before he even tasted it, the water was gone. Down his aching throat. He shook the empty container; making sure every drop fell onto his thirsting tongue. Then he closed his eyes and felt the shame well up inside of him.

He crumbled the bottle in his hand, crushing it before he threw it away from himself.

"Where are you guys?" he cried out into the mattress. "Aren't you even looking for me?"

He pressed his fingers into the side of his face as his heart started to pound and the blood rushed through his ears, the sound like a stampede as the drug began to kick in. Slowly, he brought his finger to his mouth and between whimpering, started to suck and nibble at his knuckle again. Beyond, the room started to jump and shimmer. The lights began to spin and dance until he rolled to the wall and clamped his eyes shut; shivering and crying softly.

  


  


  


  


  



	10. Out of the Frying Pan

Karai stood in front of her father's desk situated in the center of his private office. Her fingernails tapped impatiently against the lacquered surface. Despite her appointment, she'd been waiting now for over twenty minutes.

The dark wood paneling adorning the walls was offset by delicate paintings of landscapes that harkened to the countryside that he'd grown up in. She'd often gazed at the delicate works of art in silent musing at her father's contradictory nature while she waited for private attendance with him. It had always been this way, even when she was a small child, she would have to wait to see him. Their interactions were always formal and usually rushed. Nothing had changed now that she was an adult.

She huffed softly. Did she crave more attention from him? What daughter did not want her father's doting? She was no different, but in its absence she had grown a fierce sense of independence and determination to go after what she wanted. Seizing whatever it was with both hands. No matter what or who it was.

If she looked closely enough, she would have discovered that her desires almost always led back to wanting approval and acceptance from a male that she held in high regard. Leonardo came to mind and her heart pitched. She did her best to lose herself in the paintings decorating his private office but she found her attention to continue to drift. The only focus that her mind seemed inclined to dwell on was the look in Leonardo's eyes when his wretched brother confessed their illicit affair. Each time she remembered the way the light died in his eyes, her heart constricted a little more.

She never meant for him to find out about her and Raphael. Her plan had simply been to enjoy Raphael's brute form of passion while she worked at seducing Leonardo. She'd gotten tired of waiting for him to finally allow himself to indulge in what she was offering.

 

Never one for patience, she had taken what was within reach and surprisingly more easily accessible: Raphael. But Leonardo was the prize that she was really after, but he proved harder to win than she'd anticipated. His noble reluctance only made her want him that much more. She took her frustrations out on Raphael in the bedroom while she pined for his brother and planned on how to make him hers.

Truthfully, she didn't realize that something deeper than the superficial drive to win at the game she'd made had developed in her heart where Leonardo was concerned. Not until that moment she saw his face last night. Only then, as he slipped out of her grasp forever did she realize with utmost certainty that he was the one she wanted more than anything. That she wanted to earn and keep his love. And that there was revealed at last, true affection for the blue-banded mutant.

And though it frightened her more than anything else ever did to admit it, there was love for him hidden in her heart.

Her hands fisted. She could not lose him over something so trivial and shallow as sharing her bed with his brother. There had to be a way to win him back.

His nature was one of deep honor, but surely he would forgive her indiscretion once she had a chance to explain that Raphael meant nothing to her. Nothing. He cared deeply for his brothers and if she played it right, she could explain how generous she had been to offer herself to Raphael in the first place. That she had given his brother a gift that surely no other woman would be willing to give.

Karai's eyes glittered with cunning and satisfaction. Yes. If there was any way to win his affection back, it would be to discover where his younger brother was and who had him. Once she delivered Michelangelo to him, safe and unharmed, and explained the gift she'd bestowed upon Raphael, she was sure she would win him back.

She turned back to her father's desk. Though she doubted that she would be left out of the news if one of the turtles had been captured, her father was . . .  _eccentric_  when it came to them. It would not be out of his character to keep the prisoner to himself to dispose of in his leisure without anyone learning of the capture.

If he had Michelangelo it would be up to her to free him. If it meant winning Leonardo's affection, she would do whatever it took. She realized with a strange sense of commitment, even if it meant losing her life.

Karai picked up a silver letter opener shaped as a miniature sai. She fingered it as she continued thinking. Only she and possibly one or two of his elite guard knew of his private suite and the adjoining room that he'd specifically had built to host one of the turtles should they ever be taken. Goosebumps rose up along her arms just thinking about it.

The room was soundproof and sported shackles secured into the far wall. There was a single cabinet filled with devices created only to inflict pain. What plans her father made when dreaming of taking them into that room she did not want to fathom. She wondered what he would make of her pursuit and bedding of the so-called freaks and had to suppress a shudder. She hoped that she would never have to find out.

The side panel opened and her father stepped inside. She quickly set the letter opener back onto the desk and stepped aside for him. He glanced at her as he removed his helmet and set it down on the desk; running one hand through his hair, mussing the dark locks furiously. With a snap, he removed his face plate and tossed it next to the helmet as he sat. His eyes roved over the stacks of papers and folders on his desk and he gave a sigh. He turned his attention back to his daughter as he sat back into the leather chair. She gave him a deep bow.

"Father."

"Daughter. You wished to speak to me?"

She straightened up. Knowing she had to be careful, she'd chosen what to say to him earlier after getting off the phone with the assistant who made the private appointments for him.

"I have a shipment coming in from Northern Scandinavia this afternoon. Weaponry, mostly."

His brow cocked at that and he frowned slightly. The scarring on the left side of his face twisted a little with the motion, but Karai had long ago gotten used to the sight. Truth be told, she thought her father one of the most handsome men living. No one matched his grace or power. No one matched his cunning and intellect. She could only hope to live up to such genetic potential.

"I am concerned that the thorn in our side will make an appearance."

He looked sideways and gave an aggravated sigh. He knew exactly to whom she was referring. The mutant freaks.

"Are you requesting more men, Karai?" he asked with irritation clear in his tone.

"No, father. What you have supplied me with is more than adequate for the task. However, I am inquiring as to whether or not . . ." she paused and moistened her lip. Hopefully this didn't sound suspicious at all, "any of your men reported capturing any of the turtles."

His frown deepened.

"I am your daughter, Father. I cannot help but wish to please you by completing all missions you task me with. It would serve to ease my feminine anxiety to know one or more were taken out of the equation," she lied smoothly, manipulating his well-known male-superiority to serve her needs. He would never suspect that she was worried that one of Leonardo's brothers had been captured and held by him alone. Nor would he ever suspect her actual concern over the matter if it were true.

He huffed with derision; rubbing his brow with aggravation that he'd have to be bothered by such nonsense. Voice heavy with condescension, he said, "No, daughter. There has been no headway in that particular situation. Rest easy knowing that those freaks have not been seen in some time. One day," he grumbled and Karai bit her inner cheek to keep from smiling. She had her answer. He eyed her and leaned forward. "Karai, I doubt that you will run into any trouble since this shipment has been cleared through the proper agencies. We are just one business trading with another." With a tilt of his head he added, "I really don't have time for this. Can you manage the task or do I need to assign one of my elite to take your place?"

"No, Father. Not at all. I am sorry for wasting your time," she bowed. "I merely needed your reassurance," she said.

Not all of the Foot's activity was regulated to shadowy dealings done out of the light of day and the watchful eye of the authorities. All but a few of their most successful transactions were done in full view of anyone and everyone who may be interested. That was the beauty of her father's clever scheming.

"Thank you." She bowed graciously once more, hiding the smirk. So, he didn't have Michelangelo, but he also had no idea that she was simply pressing him for information. She turned on her heel then and made to leave.

"Karai."

She froze and twisted. "Yes, Father?"

He sat unmoving, staring at her, assessing her; feeling as though he were looking right through her. An icy, slippery eel of fear worked its way up her spine. The way he was looking at her, as though he wanted to say something troubling . . . something unrelated to their exchange. There was something in that look as he sat considering her in silence. Something that spoke of suspicion. And in that moment she feared the worst: that he had somehow learned of her private interactions with the turtles. Her chest squeezed as she forced her breathing to remain normal. Another moment passed and her fear turned into dread, solid and heavy in her stomach.

Finally, he dropped his gaze. "Nevermind."

Still holding her breath, she nodded and did her best to walk out of his chamber with a calm, purposeful gait. She passed by his assistant seated at the small desk and out the door into the long hallway. Only then did she allow her hand to brace along the wall to steady herself as she caught her breath.

Whatever it was that he knew, or thought he knew, Karai would not let this near catastrophic encounter go unheeded. She'd been careless. Of that she was sure. People knew. Somehow it had been discovered that she'd had dealings with the turtles. No doubt one of the wretches in her company.

God, what she would give to have an actual retinue of quality men to command. She could count on one hand the soldiers that she actually held in any kind of esteem. The rest were dim-witted dolts or dregs from the bottom of the barrel. But how much did they suspect? Soldiers were notorious for spreading even the most ridiculous rumors. They'd no doubt been whispering amongst themselves.

She clenched and unclenched her fists as she continued to ponder the situation, heading towards her end of the compound. But there was nothing concrete to pin on her, no, there couldn't be. If there had been proof, she would not be standing here right now. If she didn't tread with more caution going forward she may end up in a situation that even she, as Shredder's daughter, couldn't escape from. With that sobering thought bouncing around in her troubled mind, Karai entered her quarters.

Her father did not have Michelangelo. She was sure. But then, where could the mutant have gone? It was possible that an outside enemy had taken him down. The Purple Dragons were just as determined to hunt them as her father was. She brushed that train of thought away. It made no sense.

A stray thought brought Malcolm into her mind again. It nagged at her. Karai was never one to ignore her instinct. It was almost never wrong.

She used the communication device in her office to signal the young man whom she considered her second, Kenso. He was one of the very few that performed with a dedication and loyalty that earned her respect and admiration. He'd been by her side from the start of her promotion to commanding her own group of men. He was not bad in bed, either. Very willing to do anything his mistress demanded.

She shook her head. That had been a long time ago. When she was still searching for something to fill the hole in her chest. Before she ever laid her unbelieving eyes on Leonardo and his brothers and finally learned what she'd been seeking after her entire young adult life.

A moment later Kenso stood before her in full uniform and mask, bowing low.

"Kenso, has Malcolm been reporting in when scheduled?"

He shook his head. "He only just came in an hour ago."

"And his excuse?"

"Personal."

"I see."

She turned her back on Kenso where he knelt and looked out the window at the snow falling. Malcolm continued to raise red flags in her mind. Was it simple insubordination borne out of laziness? Or could it be related to his ramblings about the turtles.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she actually paid any attention to what he was saying. Didn't she overhear him speaking about the turtles over lunch one day? Did she only imagine that he had mentioned the one in orange? Was her mind distorting the memory to serve her desperate need to find the young mutant? She didn't know. But she could find out more of this soldiers interests and doings.

"Kenso, I would like you to follow Malcolm after he leaves today. Follow him to whatever hole he is calling his home outside the barracks and report back to me."

"Yes, Mistress. Am I to watch for anything particular?"

"No." Again, caution was needed. If Malcolm somehow had the boy, she risked Kenso capturing him to please her and she'd be in an even tighter bind. "Just . . . from a distance. I want to know where he's been sneaking off to. Nothing more."

With another bow, Kenso straightened and made to leave, pausing at the door and turning around. "I did see him speaking to one of the scientists in research, Mistress."

She frowned. "Who?"

"Adeline, Mistress."

"From the chemistry department? Send her to me immediately."

She watched him leave and pondered this development. Why would Malcolm speak to someone like Adeline? The squirrely excuse for a man hardly spoke to anyone, let alone someone in a higher ranking office. She didn't think he'd have the mental capacity to carry on a decent conversation with an ordinary soldier let alone someone as highly intelligent as one from the elite department of research.

Again, her instinct called out from the pit of her stomach that Malcolm may be more than he appeared.

# # #

Malcolm skipped to the dented driver's side of his car and got in. He tossed a bag into the passenger side seat. The day had been so productive. Not only had he learned about the effects of substance abuse on a body, but he'd found a pair of gardening shears in the back of the warehouse along with some other discarded equipment tossed into boxes for the season. He'd found some sturdy twine and several thick rubber bands. It was fortunate and almost too good to be true, but Malcolm had not been surprised. The Shredder enjoyed his intricately designed Japanese-styled gardens that ringed the training grounds and private quarters of the property.

He was just lucky that no one had spotted him poking around that particular end of the compound. He knew the place well so it was easy to get in and get out between shifts of workers. Malcolm had been given the most dreary, menial work as aid to the head groundskeeper when he was first enlisted within the ranks of the Foot.

Malcolm's face soured at the memory of the man he served. Yori Taro had been cruel and drunk most days. Furious and red faced when sober and constantly ordering Malcolm to be disciplined no matter how trivial the mistake had been.

Malcolm had run away from home when he was twelve. The Foot Clan found him two years later in a squatters' den along with several other children. The youngest were scattered, the older children, like Malcolm were taken in, cared for and trained. A year later he was given over to Yori's tutelage. A month after moving into the cramped building meant to serve as barracks with several other young men, Malcolm was called into Yori's private quarters.

He should have known what was to come next. After all, he had been using the younger children in the abandoned building just the same. Him and his companion, Samuel, the other boy he'd befriended who was the same age and had the same interests. Only he preferred the girls, whereas Malcolm picked the boys from the crowd. His favorite were the newest run-aways that had no idea what waited for them in exchange for the meager food and shelter provided.

Yori used him that night and most nights afterwards, threatening to cut his throat in his sleep if he were to whisper to anyone what went on inside the barracks of the head groundskeeper. So, Malcolm kept it to himself.

A year later, when he was promoted into the main compound, he was shocked to learn that soon after moving from the barracks, his master, Yori, was found dead. The cause was an unfortunate accident involving a wood chipper. He apparently had managed to somehow get his arm and leg caught in the grinding blades, jamming the machine and had bled out. In terrible agony.

The memory of Yori's gory demise refreshed the grin on Malcolm's face as he started the car, paused and twisted the key again until the engine turned over. The day had been good. He was in a terrific mood. He'd tracked down Adeline Kosova in research and was able to learn about body mass and the effects of some of the drugs he'd been using on Michelangelo. He had been careful in how he asked, of course.

He shook his head with a smile, remembering how he explained his cousin had been caught using some of the cocktail mixes of club drugs and how concerned his aunt had been about the entire mess. He went on to say that he promised her he would learn all about the effects and dangers of overdosing. He'd given Adeline Michelangelo's approximate weight and height and build, paying special attention to the details that she provided.

Oh, she was so worried and wished his cousin well.

Malcolm chuckled but then grew serious as he recounted what he'd learned and murmured the amounts under his breath as he pulled out onto the road. Just a little too much could put Michelangelo into a coma, something he definitely wanted to avoid. But now he had a better idea of how much he could get away with giving him and keeping him in a stupor while still being aware of what was happening around him.

And Malcolm wanted Mikey to know just what was happening. He wanted his angel to experience all the love he had to give him in the fullest way possible with as little struggle as he could manage. He hated hurting Mikey so much. It almost felt like he was feeling the pain when he struck the young mutant.

Yes, he decided, they were soul mates because he felt every bit the pain that was inflicted on Michelangelo as if he were the one on the receiving end.

An hour passed and Malcolm pulled up the long driveway to the Victorian-style house. He made to head to the back shelter where Mikey was, but then stopped. His stomach gave a rumble and he headed inside the house instead, hoisting his bag of supplies up higher on his shoulder. It was close to dinner time and he'd been too busy to have any lunch.

# # #

From the road, Kenso crept out of the shadows of a line of scraggly bare trees and bushes. He had parked the van he used when on these stealth missions about a mile away in front of a row of dilapidated apartment buildings. The vehicle had an unassuming logo on the side along with the announcement that the van belonged to a HVAC company. He watched Malcolm hop up the stairs leading to the front entrance of the large home.

Glancing around, he straightened up. He knew this place. The Foot used it sometimes when anticipating multiple shipments coming in from the docks down the road. It was situated on the outskirts of a cemetery and in the middle of a neighborhood with very little activity besides the traffic beyond on the main road coming and going from the docks.

The clouds hung heavy in the gray sky as Kenso slipped in and out of whatever cover he could find until he came upon the side of the building; taking care to place his boots into the footprints imprinted in the snow from Malcolm's own feet. He could make out no sound or sign of Malcolm. What was the man doing here? For a moment, Kenso wondered if Malcolm was homeless and was using this place as a makeshift home. The Foot kept electricity, gas and water active here despite the sporadic use, so it wouldn't be that far-fetched that someone would make it their home.

As he was thinking, Kenso moved to the back of the house; keeping his tracks close enough to the foundation of the home where the snow was ragged and uneven. There would be no evidence that he'd been there. He wondered what Karai suspected the man of doing. He was certainly not one of their stronger soldiers. But Kenso had seen him on the battle field and at times he was surprised by the man's natural cunning when it came to survival.

He was no brute, but a calculating, scheming – Kenso's train of thought was immediately halted as he noticed the footprints going to and from a set of raised storm cellar's doors. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone, Kenso shuffled forward. He wondered if he should investigate what was bringing Malcolm out and down there. But he hesitated.

Karai had asked him to merely follow and report. Not to get too close.

And yet, looking at the double doors, he couldn't shake a foreboding feeling. A swirl of something in the pit of his stomach, akin to an animal panic. An urge to flee from there was met with a stubborn clench of his jaw and carefully, quickly, he pulled the doors open.

They creaked and Kenso winced. He carefully pulled them closed behind him as he slid into the darkness at the very top of the wooden staircase. He crouched and peered into the dimly lit depths below.

There was a narrow window where the ceiling protruded from the ground that allowed some gray light into the expanse below. His eyes darted around, adjusting to the change in light. Blinking, he moved down the stairs, making no sound, keeping his back against the chilled stone wall. This was no regular storm cellar. It was more of a bomb shelter, Kenso thought.

A dour odor hit him. A slight scent of urine mixed with body sweat and some other musky smell that he didn't want to place. Before he could ponder its source he came to a complete halt as his eyes fell on a mattress tucked into one corner.

What looked like a person was curled up in the corner and as Kenso approached his stomach filled with a terrible dread; mistaking the form for a child. His eyes made out a thick chain fastened to the wall above the person's head no doubt connected to them around the neck. 

 _My god._  What was Malcolm doing? He never liked the sorry excuse for a man, but to do this to a child?

Then as he came closer, his eyes widened. They took in the shape of the shell, the bare feet that could only belong to one of the mutant freaks. This was no child.  _What the hell?_  

He had done it. He actually did it. The scrawny, useless man had captured one of the turtles. Kenso huffed a disbelieving laugh.

The sound cut through the silence of the room like a blast and the mutant stirred at the sound. Kenso tensed and immediately pulled the short blade from his belt. He had to act fast, these turtles were highly skilled and trained. Kenso's eyes glittered in the dim light. A hungry look filled them as he realized his luck.

Malcolm may have captured this mutant, but he was going to deliver its lifeless body to his mistress.


	11. Into the Fire

Michelangelo had fallen into a fitful, nightmare ridden dreamscape that held him between the ethereal planes and reality on thin gossamer threads. He stood at the entrance of a large narrow room. A long oval table was set before him laden with platters of glistening delicacies. The smell of roasted meat, crisp skin and thick gravy had his mouth watering.

He stepped forward into the room, cautious and hunched slightly, but with his eyes locked on the spread laid out before him. His stomach grumbled and rolled in on itself as he came closer. Swallowing the drool pooling in the corners of his mouth, he eyed the piles of steaming golden rolls; the white mounded mashed potatoes; the pad of white-yellow butter as it streamed down the nubby ridges of the corn on the cob. The smells mingled together and Mikey felt light-headed and shaky with hunger.

He didn't know who the food was for, but no one would mind if he just had a taste, would they? He felt like he hadn't eaten in days. A trembling hand that he barely recognized as his own appeared in front of him. For a second he looked at the swollen knuckles, the gashes running around the delicate flesh of his wrist, the deep purple bruises. His face crushed into a frown. He lifted his other hand to find it in the same awful condition.

What had happened to him? His eyes darted back to the food and blinking, he told himself that didn't matter right now.

A wine glass near him suddenly filled with a dark red liquid; so dark it was nearly black, shimmering crimson only where the light reached the surface. A heady, fruity, spicy scent reached him and he found his hand lifting the glass up to sniff deeply at the strangely layered aroma. He closed his eyes and brought the rim of the glass to his parched lips. Suddenly he was so thirsty, the food no longer interested him in the least.

"Yes."

His head snapped up and he faltered.

From across the ornate room the voice came from a figure standing in the dark, a dark hooded cape obscured his appearance. The voice was familiar. A man's voice.

Something about it warned him to get away. To get away as fast as he could. The sconces on the walls flickered and the shadows the tiny flames cast crawled up and over the heavy wood paneled walls. Mikey moved to place the glass back on the table. As he did, the figure was immediately next to him and he jerked in surprise.

"Drink it."

Mikey shook his head. Fear gripped him and stole away his voice. He had to get away,  _now_! But his legs remained unmoving; his feet glued to the lush rug beneath his toes.

The figure reached out and took the glass in a black gloved hand. He brought it up to Mikey's lips. Though his bottom lip trembled, he kept his mouth shut.

The person's hand shot out and gripped his cheeks hard, pinching until his lips opened. The glass tipped and the blood-red liquid spilled into his mouth, down his chin and over his chest. Much more than the glass could have possibly contained spilled into and over him, coating him in a thick sticky substance that felt hot and uncomfortable.

He choked and sputtered. His throat burned. Mikey bucked and shifted away; his legs finally moving a bit, but he didn't get more than a step. The figure held him firmly in place. He whimpered as the man thrust his arm back and the glass flew from his hand and shattered against the wall in a spray of sparkling shards. Mikey struggled, trying to jerk his face out of the person's grip. But he couldn't free himself. Before he knew it, tears were sliding free from his eyes.

He growled as his feet scrambled for leverage as he was shoved back. The hooded man pushed him up against the wall, slamming his shell hard against the wood. Mikey gasped as the wind was knocked from him. His fingers dug at the man's hand clamped across his throat. He squirmed and gagged as he tried to growl. Mikey jumped as he felt the figure's hand groping him between his legs. Rough fingers sticking up inside where he was tucked, making his eyes water with pain. He yelped and shook his head furiously, kicking and bringing his knees up while being pinned by his throat.

_"N-No! No!"_

"You're my soul mate, Mikey. We're like the candy. So sweet, the two of us. Mal and Mikey. Forever and ever."

The hooded man started to laugh in delight as Mikey squirmed. It was a throaty, breathy sound but it drowned out the noise of Mikey's struggle. His shoulders shook with laughter and straining against Mikey's attempt to get free made the hood fell back.

Mikey froze in terror as he stared into Malcolm's face.

His mouth was open and his incisors gleamed with a stretched out grin; tongue black and dripping thick phlegm. His small eyes were pinpricks, twinkling with wicked glee. Ice cold fright washed through Mikey as his eyes widened to saucers and he whimpered.

The madman's features twisted, rippled and the flesh peeled back from the mouth. Crawling back like a living thing of its own right, revealing a white grinning skull beneath the pink flesh. And still he laughed. And still he abused the young mutant's flesh.

Michelangelo's eyes snapped open.

They blurred and attempted to focus but he couldn't shake the dizzy effects of whatever it was that Malcolm had put in that water. The sound. What was it? The laughter. Was Malcolm here?

He started to tremble as he stared at the white stones in front of his face. He had woken him from a vivid and horrible nightmare into a reality full of the same terror. He wanted to lay still and pretend that he was alone. Pretend that if he didn't move then maybe nothing bad would happen.

But what if it was his rescue? His brothers? The thought made his heart trip with a painful lance of hope. Mikey shifted, moving his finger, wet from nibbling and sucking on it as he slept, and his gaze crept over his shoulder.

The ninja appeared out of the shadows like a living nightmare.

The drugs in his system distorted the image to appear much like the hooded monstrosity from his dream. Mikey cried out in shock and fright. The black-clad figure fell on him. As he did, Mikey caught the gleam of a blade. He brought his arm up to protect his face. The sharp edge meant for his jaw sliced neatly through the flesh of his forearm. He gritted his teeth and hissed as he felt the grating sensation of it hitting his bone. A cascade of red spilled over his arm.

The bright stars of pain erupted in front of Michelangelo's vision as the soldier struck his face with a solid punch. His exhausted, starved body bucked, trying to knock the man away. Mikey's fists grabbed at the man's uniform with a clumsy, uncoordinated effort. He was making a strangled, choked wordless sound; garbled and hoarse from lack of use and the influence of the drugs.

They grappled and struggled in the gloom.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mikey knew he should be a better fighter. That if he could just get his arms and hands to work the way they were supposed to, he could defend himself better. But it was no use. It was like he was trying to work a puppet from across the room with limp strings. Mikey felt the blade slice his chest. He felt the sting through the thick material of his plastron.

Kenso wrestled with the mutant. He brought his knee up and slammed it between the turtle's legs, unsure if it would do anything, but using every instinct to take him down.

His knee struck the swollen flesh of Michelangelo's broken tail. A flash of white blinded Mikey as sharp pain lanced him; driving his body into an arched spasm of intense pain. His head whipped back and his hands went slack. The air flowed into his constricting chest as he inhaled and let out an agonized shriek.

# # #

From the house, Malcolm froze. A sandwich held up to his mouth. A blob of purple jelly hung from the very middle of his drooping bottom lip.

He set the sandwich down, stood up and crossed the dimly lit dining room. He pulled aside the blinds and peered into the backyard. His eyes narrowed and he frowned. Then he turned his head. _What is this now? Did Mikey hurt himself?_ Malcolm's frown deepened as a wave of irritation swept through him. He moved from the window and grabbed the bag with the garden shears poking out left on one of the dining room chairs.

"Can't even eat in peace," he grumbled.

He made to leave the room, when he considered the wrapped fish that he had picked up from the store the other day. Michelangelo hadn't eaten for days and he'd felt foolish for forgetting such an important aspect of being a considerate partner.

Unsure what exactly to feed Michelangelo, he went with purchasing a whole trout. He had taken the fish out of the fridge that morning, thinking he'd bring it to the turtle when he went to visit him, but had forgotten. The little details sometimes slipped his mind. He really couldn't be blamed for such an innocent mistake.

He threw the strap of the bag over his shoulder, grabbed the rolled up blanket he'd found and tucked it under one arm. He glanced at the fish wrapped in white paper. Then he picked it up. He brought it to his nose and grimaced at the rancid, slick scent. He shrugged and walked out of the room. It would do.

"Should be grateful I remembered to feed him," he reasoned. "And this wasn't cheap, either."

As he made his way through the narrow hallway of the Victorian home, he wondered what could've made Mikey cry out so loudly. He'd have to see what his problem was. A fresh wave of irritation hit him. Malcolm could not have the boy screaming out like that, even if they were relatively isolated. If someone heard him….Well, he'd just make it clear to Mikey that there'll be no more of this hollering.

It simply wouldn't be tolerated.

# # #

Blinded by tears, tail throbbing in a sickening drumbeat of agony, Mikey swung his fists out wildly and snarled. Kenso blocked the clumsy attempts with ease and grunted as he brought his elbow down onto Mikey's snout. He cried out and rolled to one side, covering his face with both hands. His entire body aflame with pain.

He kicked with his left leg with all his might, landing a direct blow to the center of Kenso's chest; pushing him back, just as he had flipped the knife into his fist, blade pointed down to stab into Mikey's exposed side right above the hip. The knife clattered to the cement floor, spinning and glinting in the dim light, the silver burnished with the pink tinge of Mikey's blood.

Silent, the ninja jumped up and gripped Mikey by the ankles.

Michelangelo twisted, clawing at the mattress, the wall, the chain, but he fell with a grunt against the bed as the man yanked him backwards. Mikey was forced back onto his shell as his lower half was lifted off the mattress. The collar around his throat caught and Mikey's eyes went wide; his windpipe crushed against the unforgiving metal. His bloody hands fumbled at the edge of the collar, but it was flush against his flesh. His fingers could find no means to pull it away. His eyes watered as the room spun around him and he whimpered and choked.

Kenso braced his feet in a wide stance and pulled back with all his might, knowing that the collar he'd seen around the mutant's throat would be a swift way to dispatch him. He wanted this quick and clean, even in the creature's obvious state of neglect, he was a force to reckon with.

The edges of Mikey's vision blackened as the pressure built in his head and chest. He was going to die. He was going to die without ever seeing his brothers again.

Panic and terror wrestled for dominance inside his racing mind. The pressure was building in his chest, threatening to make his stampeding heart burst. Their faces flashed through his mind, each one making him cringe and moan with heartbreak.

Leonardo. His steadfast and stoic oldest brother. He'd never get a chance to tell Leo how much he admired him, not only as a ninja, but as a big brother and role model.

Donatello. His quiet and pensive second oldest. He'd never get a chance to tell Don, that he thought he was the smartest person on the planet.

Raphael. His fiery near-twin. He'd never get a chance to tell Raphael that he was his favorite brother, despite all the bickering; his strength, courage and stubborn willfulness were traits that Mikey himself wished he had more of.

Master Splinter . . . Mikey's eyes pinched closed as he choked out a cry of pain between the garbled sounds of trying to breathe.

_Dad. Oh, Dad, I'm so sorry I couldn't have been a better son!_

As the lost desperate thoughts raced through his clouding mind, he felt a jolt. He cracked his eyes opened.

The man stiffened. He dropped Mikey's legs. Immediately, Mikey drew back and away. The ninja's hands went to his shoulders, fingers in clawed hooks, clutching at the air, as he made a strange sound. A mix between a hoarse bark of rage and a shout of surprise.

Michelangelo, weak with pain but still running high on adrenaline, scrambled back until his shell hit the wall and his chain rattled. He sucked in air in large gulps, digging his fingers into the small space between the collar and his throat. His fingers came away coated in blood from where it cut into his delicate skin. The ninja made the sound again and Mikey shuddered, keeping his red-rimmed eyes locked on the man.

He fell forward onto his knees, then flat onto his face.

Mikey's eyes widened as he saw the handle of a pair of garden shears sticking out from the center of the ninja's spine. His gaze shot to Malcolm standing behind him.

He was looking only at the man on the floor, eyes wild, lips pulled back into an expression much too similar to the one he wore in Mikey's nightmare. He stood like that for another second before he dropped and with a yank and a sickening sound, pulled the shears free from the man. He reared back and brought the bloodied pointed ends back into the man. And again.

Mikey realized then that the sound he'd heard was actually coming from Malcolm. The ninja had never made a sound. A life dedicated to absolute stealth even up to the moment of death. The strangled animal noise was coming from Malcolm.

Somehow, after everything he'd been through with the madman, something about hearing that sound frightened Michelangelo more than anything. He held his injured arm, still cascading a thin sheet of blood and pushed himself further into the corner as he watched Malcolm continue to mangle the man's body in a blind rage. Not even using the clippers any longer but tearing and ripping into the body with his bare hands. The copper smell of blood mixed with the ripe scent of gore and loosed bowels.

His churning stomach roiled. Mikey gagged.

Malcolm's blood spattered face shot up; hair mussed, face flecked with crimson drops, eyes glassy and empty. He climbed to one knee, then stepping onto the remains of the soldier he crowded into Mikey's corner.

 _"Don't do that!"_  he screamed.

Mikey flinched and cowered; terrified and sickened. The dead man's blood, ruby-red and hot, sprayed across Mikey's shivering form as Malcolm stood over him shaking with rage. He couldn't help retching again.

"Stop it. Stop that," Malcolm said with a thick voice of revulsion. "It's only blood. I saved you. Now, I'm telling you to stop."

Fat drops of blood spattered onto the mattress and Mikey's ankles. He stared down at Mikey who at that moment brought his hand up and covered his mouth as his stomach rolled and his head pitched forward a little.

 _"Gah! It's just blood!"_ he screamed.

Malcolm, hands slick with his foul deed, gripped Mikey by the face and top of the head. He spun around and dragged a struggling, whimpering Mikey out of the corner towards the fallen ninja. The chain rattled and jangled as he was forced to the foot of the mattress.

Up this close, Michelangelo could see the steam rising from the dead man's corpse in the frigid air. The sight of the torn muscles, so red, too red, like raw meat; the thick pool of sticky blood beneath; the cloying smell of death had him rolling his eyes back and gagging fiercely again. The bile rose and spilled out of his mouth; lips pulled far back, baring his incisors as he vomited.

"You  _filthy_!" Malcolm shrieked in a high-pitched voice.

Straddling his shell for leverage, he placed a hot hand on the back of Mikey's head. Mikey whimpered and yelped as Malcolm suddenly drove his face into the gory remains. The body jumped and wiggled as Mikey pushed against it; trying to get away.

"No! Ah!  _AH_! Oh god!  _Mphf!"_

He strained and fought but Malcolm continued to grind his face into the mess that was left of the man's back. He cried out as his mouth filled with the soldier's blood. It was too much. His empty stomach rolled and clenched painfully, spilling the last of the thick bile.

He was dragged backwards by the back of his neck. Malcolm held him up and snarled into the side of his face, "Don't ever do that again! You understand me! Never again!" Then he threw Mikey down onto his shell.

Moaning and sobbing, dripping in the soup of his vomit and the blood, his mind was a blank of traumatized terror. His face and plastron were coated in a bright red smear; as though someone had thrown an open pail of red paint at him. He brought his shaking hands up and tried to wipe the gore from his eyes using the backs of his wrists. His chest bounced with the effort of trying to breathe between ragged gasping breaths.

"It's only blood! It's blood!" Macolm was shouted in a strained voice. As if he'd already explained this idea to Michelangelo a million times before. " _Blood_!" Now there was a note of humor in the tone of his shouting. He stepped over, straddling the body; reached down and scooped up a handful and tossed it at Mikey.

The turtle rolled to the side just as it splattered across his legs, crying loudly now. Blubbering.

Malcolm straightened up; stared at him, covered up to his elbows in blood. He huffed and looked away. He gave a slight shake of his head. "C'mon. It's not like that," he said softly. "I saved you. You should be happy." Then he considered Kenso between his legs. "I know I am. This guy was tough. And a prick," he said as he gave the body a sideways kick with the inside of his foot. "I would've never been able to get the drop on him if he hadn't been so busy trying to kill you."

"Well, we can't leave him here like this. Only . . ." He tilted his head, thinking.

Then with a dream-like smile, Malcolm picked up the gardening clippers, positioned them at Kenso's neck and with a rough snap, then another, loped off his head. He bent to retrieve it. His fingers clutched into the fine white-blond hair. Bleached, no doubt. Karai's little man-bitch was no longer a threat. He raised it to eye-level then cocked a brow at Mikey, still quaking with loud, choking sobs. He turned the head around and using his free hand, he used his finger to pull at Kenso's lip.

"Miiiikey," Malcolm made the bodiless head speak. "Michelangelo. Look over here. Look! Stop that crying this instant." Seeing that his joke had no impact, Malcolm dropped his hands to his sides with an aggravated sigh.

He stepped over and pushed Mikey's shell with his foot. "Hey. That's enough. What's the matter with you? You'd think I just killed your buddy or something."

He pushed him again and this time, hiccupping, Mikey climbed to his hands and knees and made for the corner where he balled himself up, shell to the room.

Malcolm sighed in aggravation again. "Maybe you'd have liked it better if I let him kill you, huh?" He glanced again at Kenso's head. " _You_  would've liked that. You little punk. Thought you could take Michelangelo to that whore, didn't you. Thought you'd just come in here and take him from me."

He reached up and pulled a metal bar from the wall and slid it into a brace mounted on the floor near the wall close to the work table. He positioned the head carefully over the end. With a swift, strong motion, jabbed the end up into it. He stepped back and nodded in approval.

He bobbed the man's nose with a sticky fingertip. "Well, I guess you were wrong, weren't you? Huh, Kenso? You pussy." Malcolm laughed at him then and clapped his hands together in satisfaction. "I like this. This has been exciting! It's not every day I get to rescue my love from the hands of a cruel villain!"

He turned and moved to the stairs. He stooped and retrieved the blanket he'd brought for Mikey. He threw it over Kenso's headless body. He gathered it up into his arms with care. To Mikey he said, "I'll take care of this and then we'll get you cleaned up. How's that sound?" As he turned to leave, he stopped.

With a quick crouch, he managed to grasp the edge of the wax paper the trout was wrapped in. He twisted and flung it towards Mikey. It smacked into his shell and he yelped like a frightened dog. "Why don't you have some dinner while you wait? I won't be long."

He climbed up the stairs and called down, "It's been a great day, Mikey! A  _great_  day! And I know just how we'll end it together!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? I'm not done with you yet, dear readers.


	12. Darkness Creeps Between the Cracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to give a BIG shout out to my lovely friend TheIncredibleDancingBetty. Thanks to her vast knowledge on all things regarding torture and medical information, I am loading myself with some fascinating stuff that I will be applying to this story. So you can thank her as I do for the wonderful and HUGE amounts of information she has been supplying me.
> 
> If you haven't read her stuff and you are enjoying this story - I really recommend her stories on FFN. I particularly am enjoying Light Purple Dark and My Friend Al. Dark and lovely. Just how I like my stories.

His breath was getting more and more ragged as he pressed himself harder into the corner. His body wouldn't stop shaking.

He'd heard of people going into shock after being in an accident and he wondered if what he'd just gone through would be enough to put him into shock. The soft mewling sound wouldn't stop squeezing out of his throat. He pressed his lips together but still the sound came.

The awful images continued to flash before his clenched eyes.

The soldier coming out of the darkness. Fighting for his life. The blade slicing through his arm, the arm that he clutched to his chest, even now sending a fresh sheet of blood to cover the sticky mess left on him from the body. And that was the other image that would not leave him be: that of Malcolm savaging the ninja's body and then . . . then shoving him into the gore.

Mikey's stomach rolled and he shook his head in brief quick movements, as though denying it had actually happened. The rough stone bit into his forehead but he only registered the sting dimly. His bottom and tail was a non-stop throb of pain, his arm burned as if it were on fire and the rest of his battered, starved body ached in more places than he ever realized he even had.

He hiccupped and bit back the surge of frantic panic clawing at the edges of his mind. He knew he should control himself. He had to behave like a proper ninja. It would not help him any if he went into hysterics. He knew this. But he also knew he was quickly losing his grip on his composure.

Leonardo would be so disappointed if he learned how easily his younger brother broke. If Leo were here, he'd be stoic and hard. Nothing could break him down. His quiet defiance would undermine everything that Malcolm would try to do to him. Mikey trembled and licked his bottom lip. He had to be like Leo. He had to be strong. He squeezed tighter into the corner.

But he was so scared. He was so tired and hungry.

And deep inside he knew he was weak. Leo knew this, too. He could see it in his brother's eyes whenever he did something stupid or messed up a kata or joked around once too many times when they were out scouting. A soft moan escaped Mikey's lips and a fresh stream of tears trickled free from his tightly clamped eyes. More than a few times Leo had reprimanded him like he was a child in front of the others; making him blush and choke on his humiliation. What would Leo think of him now? Huddled in a corner, crying like a baby, shaking like a terrified animal.

 _What will he think when he learns what I let Malcolm do to me?_  

The thought sent another bolt of panic and despair through him. Without realizing, his knuckle was suddenly pressed to his mouth and he began to nibble and suck on it; tasting the coppery blood, licking it away until it was his own flesh that he tasted. The motion and the flavor of his own skin comforting him a little. His breathing slowed. But a wicked line of thoughts marched through his mind serving only to cripple his waning mental strength, but he couldn't stop them.

 _I'm like an infant. I'm disgusting. It's better this way. I'd only bring disgrace to the family when they learn I was . . . raped._ He shuddered and mewed in pain.  _No. Stay calm._  His shallow breaths came in huffs from between his gritted teeth and his knuckle, biting hard enough to leave indentations in his finger.

He knew he should think. There had to be a way out of this.

If Donatello were here he would have figured out a way to free himself. Something with math. He was sure that math held some secret to solving every problem there could be, but as most things that required a lot of concentration, math eluded Mikey. If he could be logical and calm like Donnie he'd find the answer to this problem.

Donatello never faced a challenge that he didn't eventually solve. His brother was a genius. Mikey knew Don would be sickened by his complete stupidity. He'd heard him on more than one occasion going on and on about how he couldn't stand the general idiocy of people. Blinking in the dark, Mikey tried to concentrate. If he could just think. If he was only smarter. He was sure there was something simple right in front of his nose that he was completely missing. If he were here, Don would point it out to him with a snort of irritation and disgust and only then would he see it.

But that's the way it always was with him.

Whenever his intelligent brother tried to teach Mikey how to do anything, it was an exercise in frustration. After going over it several times, Don would finally get so angry he'd send him running from his sight, heart pounding with disappointment that he let Donatello down once again. And Don would be disgusted and frustrated with his inability to grasp what he considered beyond simple. He made it clear to the others that Mikey was too slow to understand even the most elementary of concepts.

Once, Mikey had overheard him talking about it with Leo. They thought he'd gone to bed. But he had been thirsty, stopping on his way to the kitchen as he heard Don expressing in a low voice his irritation to Leonardo.

"You don't understand my frustration with this situation Sensei has placed me in. Leo, he's so thick, it's nearly incomprehensible, even to me. I have to waste so much time tutoring him when it's obvious he'll never understand but the most simplistic of concepts. I'm surprised he learned to read, honestly, Leo."

Leonardo chuckled, "Come on, Don. He can't be that bad."

Don snorted with derision.

Michelangelo had slunk away, back to his room, hearing more than enough. Heart racing, he'd set out to prove Donatello wrong.

Master Splinter had assigned Don to tutor him in addition to his usual homework. An extra hour a day with Donatello's evaporating patience with his stupidity. Mikey wanted more than anything to prove Donatello's assessment of his intelligence wrong, but he discovered that was harder than he thought it would be. For he found himself hopelessly lost no matter what subject they covered. And he found himself berated and reminded how slow and thick he was most days. In his brother's frustrations with his struggle to understand, Donatello would continually lose his own battle with patience, something the brainy mutant never had much of to begin with. Mikey's fear of his own inferior intelligence was confirmed time and time again.

Finally, they had agreed that Don would just do his extra work for him.

Of course, he'd dumb it down quite a bit so that their father wouldn't realize. And Donatello made sure to explain he was doing just that to Mikey each and every time. But Mikey had agreed it was for the best. He bore the insults in silence. It was, after all, not his brother's fault that he was so stupid. He didn't mean to take up Don's precious time. If it were up to him, he'd have never bothered Don in the first place.

But they had come to the decision that would work out best for everyone involved. Mikey could pretend to learn something that he was obviously incapable of learning and Donatello then could be free to get back to the more important work that he focused on in his lab. They would go to the lab together, Don would do the work in a few seconds, then get to his own tinkering while Mikey was left to sit at the desk in silence and doodle on scraps of paper until their tutoring time was up. Don would then usher him out of his sight as quickly as possible. Happy to be rid of him.

_Maybe it's better that Malcolm has me._

His eyes snapped open wider. He shivered. What was he  _thinking_? His brothers loved him. Of course it wasn't better that he was here with this nutcase. And yet, the thought remained, like a blight catching hold of his subconscious and spreading its poison spores through his system.

"Raph would miss me," he croaked.

And even as he spoke the words aloud, he was unsure.

How many times did Raph get so angry with him that he'd hit him and beat him to the ground? Mikey knew that his pranks could get annoying, but sometimes, it was like Raphael  _hated_  him. Really hated him.

How many times had he seen it in his brother's fiery gaze? The look he gave him sometimes was like he wanted to kill him. Really kill him. He was constantly reminding Mikey how inferior he was compared to his brother's amazing strength. Every time he pinned him, every time he got him into an impossible lock or hold, his brother's laughter would rain down over him. Washing him in humiliation as he was forced to submit and tap out, or cry uncle, or Raph's the best or some other disgracing decree.

But Mikey knew, if Raphael were here he'd have killed Malcolm. He'd have taken the man by the throat and shook him like a dog savaging a rabbit; snapping his neck between his enormous hands. He would have never let that creep touch him . . . let alone take him and use him like that.

When Raphael learns that he was raped . . .  _What is he going to say?_   _He's going to tease me._  He could just hear the insults his brother would no doubt lob his way. Mikey choked and the sob rocked his aching body. He bit and sucked on his knuckle, shaking his head in denial; moaning out the wordless sounds of his fear and refusal to believe that Raph would hurt him like that.

And yet . . . his brother could be so cruel sometimes . . . Mikey knew this better than anyone. Memories of Raphael's sharp witted, cutting remarks rose up in his mind.

It was as if every slight and demeaning quip were being thrown his way down in that pit of horrors. He could feel Leonardo's disappointment and disgust, sense Donatello's dismissal of him, Raphael's loathing and malice. Shame, thicker than the blood coating his body, oozed over him, sinking past his drugged and frantic mind, down deeply into his psyche. Into his quivering, despairing soul.

And he couldn't fight the tide of self-pity drowning him in his lowest point. He was too exhausted, too frightened, too hungry, nerves too frayed to fight it back.

No one would really mind that he was gone. That's why they hadn't come for him. They were probably enjoying the peace in the lair without him there bothering them. They were going to take their time if they would even look. Maybe Splinter would force them to go out looking eventually. But he believed that down deep, it wouldn't really matter to them if they ever found him or not.

He was going to die here. With Malcolm. With the dismembered head of that Foot ninja staring at him. Silently mocking him.

He moaned and choked on another sob. The sob turned into a broken cry, hoarse and strained. Then another and another. He couldn't stop them. He rocked where he sat but the pain lanced through him and he instead huddled tighter into himself.

# # #

Leonardo's legs shook as he trudged through the snow. It came up to his knees and in places rose above to his thighs. The flakes were blinding him but he pressed on. A low repeating whistle informed him of his brothers' locations as they hunted for any sign of Michelangelo.

He beat back the knowledge that their attempts were more than futile in this storm. But he could not return home without his brother. Master Splinter made it clear that he would not be able to return until he had him. And Leonardo did not resent this command.

It was his responsibility to protect his brothers. It was his responsibility to bring them home. Always.

His stomach was hollow and empty and though they had regrouped to go over their plan of searching for their missing sibling once more and Donatello had handed out sandwiches to keep them fueled, Leonardo found he couldn't bring himself to eat. Don had pushed and pointed out that they needed to keep their energy up or risk becoming lax and incompetent in their searching, so to make him happy, Leo had shoved it into his coat pocket, promising to eat it later on the search. That was enough to shut Donatello up. But later, as the hours wore on and exhaustion pulled at his limbs, he pressed on, ignoring the fatigue in his limbs. He knew he should eat, but he couldn't do it.

What was the point if it would only come right back up. The guilt was knotted in his stomach, taking up any space that was there anyway.

He had let them all down. Mikey most of all.

He should have never gone to talk with Karai. Just thinking of her name sent a bolt of self-hatred and pain through him. He'd been selfish to ever even entertain the notion of pursuing anything romantic with the woman. Not only was there no room in his life for such frivolous things, but Karai belonged to the very organization that wished harm to befall his father and brothers. Was there ever a bigger fool than he?

His family had to come first and he allowed something as shallow as his heart get in the way of that. He swore to himself it would never happen again.

His stormy eyes searched the clouds above. A shadow leapt between two buildings.

Then there was Raphael. His brother was completely strung-out and taking all of this hard. Mikey being gone was almost too much to bear. The heartache and strain between them only added to the burden and stress of the situation. Leonardo felt like he was on the verge of having either a stroke or a heart attack at any given moment. He could only imagine what Raphael was going through.

His brother never handled stress well.

Honestly, Leo was worried about his younger brother. He couldn't help it.

He was refusing to speak to him any more than a few rough grunts when Leo laid out the plan for their searching. Leo didn't blame him. He was sure that Raphael would never forgive him. It would be ironic if Leonardo had the time to really give it any thought. The fact that Raphael wouldn't forgive him for something he couldn't help. He'd always loved Karai. Fool that he was, he loved her since the moment he'd first seen her. And he'd clung to that doomed flight of fancy like a lifeline.

If anything, it should have been Raphael seeking forgiveness from him. But Leonardo knew Raphael would never see it that way. Raphael had no idea that he harbored such intense feelings for the kunoichi, of that he was sure. He was also sure that Raphael felt he had done nothing wrong in acting on Karai's invitation. She had chosen him to be physical with, after all.

He said it had been  _months_. The thought sent a sharp pain through his heart.  _It could've been me_ , his mind whispered. He shoved the thought away. It was doing him no good to think such thoughts. Not now. Really, not ever. It was over. It was done. Nothing could be salvaged now. She had shattered him. The pieces could never be put back together again.

Leo leapt to a fire escape and scaled it to the roof. His foot slipped and he scrambled for a hold along the icy railing that bordered the roof's parapet. He gasped as his fingers numb with the frigid temperature slid and he found that he couldn't hold on.

 _"Dammit!"_  he ground out.

A hand caught him around the wrist and steadied him enough to allow him to clamber up and over the railing. He stumbled forward into the thick bank of snow gathered next to the low wall. His eyes raised up and he blinked at the flakes temporarily blinding him. A familiar shadow loomed over him.

"Are you alright?" Karai asked.

"What are you doing here?" he asked gruffly, making a point not to look at her directly. He stood up and brushed the snow from his coat and legs.

"I've been waiting for a report from one of my men and I grew restless. I figured I would search for your brother as well."

Leonardo huffed. "Why?" he snapped.

She stepped closer to him and he stiffened, still not looking at her, but not stepping away either. "What concerns you concerns me as well."

He couldn't help but cock a brow at that and give her a sidelong glance. Her proximity caused his heart to flutter and he hated himself bitterly for the reaction.

"I have my suspicions as to your brother's whereabouts."

And still she moved closer. Leonardo stood his ground, though part of his mind wanted to back away, the part that was burning and in pain, another part wanted to learn what she knew, hoping that maybe it would give them a lead. Something,  _anything_  to go on.

And he could not deny that he also wanted to grab her and shake her; demand to know why she hurt him the way she had. Ask her if there was anything ever between them besides the brittle teasing. Had it always only been a game to her? He wanted to demand to know what she was thinking when she turned to his brother. Ask her what he could have done to keep her interest. His mind shied away from that last one. He knew the answer to that. His regret was a coiled constrictor around his bleating heart.

The questions were on his tongue, poisoning him. But there would be no good of speaking them. He would be destroyed if he asked her, destroyed if he withheld them. A piece of him was dying slowly at her hands and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all, except endure the pain.

And that was something Leonardo was good at: enduring pain.

The snow fell around them and he found himself staring openly at the stark beauty of the woman before him; of her black hair speckled with the intricate flakes, downy like feathers spilling all around her head and shoulders; her green eyes gazing from beneath the thick fringe of her hair; mesmerizing him.

As he drowned inside her eyes a figure emerged from the darkness like a ball of fury. The crimson scarf snapping in the wind, bright with accusations. The harsh voice laced with hatred and spite ripped him from his reverie, his rare and miniscule moment of peace.

_"Leo!"_

Startled, he immediately backed away from Karai as Raphael stormed towards them. His golden eyes flicked between them. The snarl on his face more terrible and fierce as his face darted back and forth between them. The hatred and spite was thick in the air, coming off him in almost physical waves.

"The fuck you doin'? This how you been searchin' for Mikey? You fuckin' lousy bastard! You slimy, lyin' fuck!"

Leonardo withstood the volley of curses and insults like a mountain enduring a raging storm.

"I have a man investigating a lead," Karai said coolly.

Raphael merely raked his gaze over her and turned his head and spat into the snow. To Leo, he said, "Done wastin' time here, Fearless? Can't wait ta explain ta Mikey how hard you were lookin' for him."

Leonardo stared at him, eyes burning, then dropped them away as the guilt from his momentary peace ate at him. Raphael was not wrong. He had the nerve to seek respite even if it was but a few seconds when his brother was missing and most likely hurt. His leaden stomach sank.

He turned to leave with a heart aching and filled with self-loathing. He never hated himself more than at that moment.

Karai called out, "Wait, please. If I hear from Kenso, how will I reach you?"

Leonardo's steps faltered. He turned as Raphael came at her, marching into her personal space so aggressively she stumbled back more than a few steps. He brought his face close to hers. The fear was clearly written in her features.

"What? You know somethin' slut? Answer me!"

Leonardo's hand on his shoulder was all it took to make him snap. He spun with a fist balled tight and aimed for Leonardo's jaw. The strike connected with a sharp crack. Leo's head snapped to one side, but his grip only tightened on Raphael's shoulder. Raph followed with an upper cut to Leonardo's mid-section. Leo grunted and dropped to sweep Raphael's legs. Raphael tumbled backwards with a loud snarl. In an instant, he snapped his legs back and jumped to his feet, launching himself into Leo, tackling him back into the snow.

_"Enough!"_

The bo staff knocked Raphael to one side. The resounding crack echoed through the densely falling snow.

Donatello stood over Leonardo, emerging from the storm like a wrathful angel, his eyes obscured in inky shadow. He reached down and gripped his older brother by one lapel and dragged him to his feet, only to give him a rough shove backwards. He stared coldly at Leo as he wiped the blood from his lip.

"Give her your number."

Leonardo blinked stupidly at his brother. "Wh-What?"

"If you haven't already," he said in an icy voice, thick with revulsion.

Leonardo stood staring at him.

Don snapped, eyes flat with fury, "Do it,  _fool_. Any information we can get will be useful. No matter from where it comes."

Leonardo remained where he stood. Unsure. Immobilized by indecision.

Donatello's eye twitched. Once again, Leonardo, their leader, was inept. He didn't have time for this.

"Are you  _nuts_?!" Raph roared at Donatello and he merely stared at him. Raphael climbed to his feet, rubbing his arm where the staff had connected, even in the dim light, the large bruise could be seen darkening across his green flesh.

Donatello shot them both a look that had Raphael snapping his mouth shut and Leo blinking and dropping his gaze. He then spun on his heel and marched over to Karai. He stopped a few inches away from her. His dark eyes scanned her face, searching for something, she didn't know what. He murmured the number under his breath, pausing as she entered it into her phone.

"I don't need to tell you what will happen if you let that number slip to anyone else before our brother is discovered. Or if you attempt to track it." The ends of the words 'track' and 'it' were crisp and annunciated to a painful clarity.

She shook her head.

He remained there, unmoving. His eyes bore into hers as he stood assessing her with a fathomless gaze. He continued like that for a few more minutes and Karai squirmed where she stood, feeling more and more like a specimen being examined and dissected.

There was something strange about this one. His sharp intellect was clearly defined behind the dark eyes hidden only partially by a purple mask. Even the color itself suggested mystery and cunning. Karai wasn't sure why the thought popped into her mind but she was reminded of some of the people they had in research and development. Minds ahead of their time, working at unimaginable programs, all of them had eyes that didn't look so much at you as through you. As though by looking at you they could read the intrinsic code of your DNA and decipher its worth with a moment's glance.

Finally he said in a calm voice that chilled her more than the air around her, "Contact us moment you hear  _anything_. Understood?"

She couldn't find her voice so she only nodded. Then stood by, frozen in place, as Donatello turned. The ends of his long coat billowed around him as he gathered his brothers and they disappeared into the snow. She caught a momentary backwards glance by Leonardo and her heart jumped into her throat.

_He looked back._

He still cared, she was certain. But the thought, as comforting as it should have been did little to calm her frightened, skittering heart. Karai brought one hand to her throat and for some reason felt as though she had come very close to something more dangerous than she'd ever been before.

# # #

Malcolm carried Kenso's body out to the cemetery. As he trudged through the slushy snow, he hummed his favorite tune,  _Dream Lover._  Despite his socks becoming soaked through from the icy snow, he was in a wonderful mood. He had been given the chance to prove his devotion and love for Mikey in the most amazing of ways. He was his rescuer! His knight in shining armor! Malcolm chuckled.

His heart was light as he slung the body out from the bridal hold into the open grave at the very edge of a scrub of woods on the furthest most edge of the property line.

Here there were many open graves, left that way for the Foot to use as hiding holes for weapons, or whatever else they needed to stash for any short period of time. It was simple. It was clean. It was a fine way to stash something you didn't want anyone to find at least for a while.

Malcolm stared down into the depths where Kenso's body lay. He smiled. Kenso really paid off in a way that Malcolm never dreamed he would. The guy was a constant source of irritation. And now he was gone. Forever.

He'd come back and set the body on fire, but he'd do that later. There was no rush. The Foot owned all this property. There was only the slightest chance that a homeless person may wander through here, but that chance was slim at best. Mostly they stayed close to the docks if anywhere.

Still, Malcolm threw a pile of branches and stones on top of the body for added coverage. The cold would keep the smell at a minimum for the time being as well.

He turned back towards the house. What was more pressing was the fact of Kenso's disappearance. Malcolm needed to consider that he may have been sent here to spy on him.

But why? No one suspected him of any wrong doing. Why would anyone be interested in what he'd been up to?

Malcolm shook his head. It made no sense. No. More likely, the man was out to set him up for some kind of prank or immature hazing type of scenario. It wouldn't be the first time. Malcolm ground his teeth together. Ever since he'd been assigned to the slut's regiment, he'd been the butt of jokes and the imagination of his tormentors seemed to know no bounds. It had to be a fluke that Kenso decided to investigate the shelter in the yard. Maybe he was planning on using it in some way in conjunction with whatever wicked little pratfall he was planning. Probably meant to surprise him by hiding inside there or something.

A giggle burst from Malcolm. Well, he certainly got a surprise, didn't he?

"It's nothing," Malcolm reassured himself.

Though he had to make sure he kept his story straight should he be questioned about Kenso's whereabouts. No one would ever suspect mousey, sweet, mumbling Malcolm to have anything to do with an officer's disappearance. Not someone as high ranking and close to their little slut leader. Everyone dismissed him as a helpless, frail little nothing.

He huffed and shrugged. The Foot was a dangerous organization to belong to. Enemies were always about. Men disappeared and were never seen from again. Often it was the Purple Dragons, but sometimes it was the nature of the missions in and of themselves. Let them think whatever they wanted. Nothing mattered except his lover.

He stood at the edge of the property and gazed upon the double doors leading to his Mikey. Time for some much deserved fun.

"Your hero is coming, Dream Lover," Malcolm murmured and skipped through the snow towards the doors.

# # #

Lost in his despair, Mikey's head was spinning and his heart wouldn't stop beating like he was running a race. It was hard to breathe, each inhale and exhale were with a forced effort. A part of his mind remaining clear and free from the haze of pain and fright, the doubt and self-pity. It continued to shriek at him to make an escape. To go while Malcolm was busy disposing of the body. That he was wasting precious time. Now was his best chance. He had to escape. _Now! Hurry!_

 _"HOW?!"_  Mikey shouted hoarsely into the wall and slammed the side of his fist into the stone.

He clawed at the collar around his neck with sticky, shaking fingers coated in thick syrup-like blood. His injured arm stung and ached with the movement, sending fresh amounts of blood to cascade down to his elbow where it dripped onto his thigh. The flesh of his hands stuck against the metal as he pulled away in frustration. The blood making everything feel tacky.

The chains rattled. The cheerful tinkling sound a mockery to his ears. His earlier dark thoughts of his family weighed down on him like a thick blanket of despair.

 _Break the chain, dumbass_ , a voice that sounded like Raph's seemed to come from outside his head and he started.

His eyes snapped open and darted around. For a second he thought they had come. They loved him! He knew it! His brothers were here; they had finally found him and had come to take him home. His galloping heart leapt into his throat with hopeful fright. But as his eyes strained in the gloom, he found himself alone. His heart plummeted with disappointment and confusion.

But he thought . . . he could have sworn he heard his voice . . .

"Raph," he whispered, eyes still searching, still not believing he just imagined the voice. It sounded so real. So clear.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the rounded shape of the other one's head, looming like a partially deflated balloon just across the room. He could feel the eyes on him. His skin crawled with repulsion and a wave of irrational terror swept through him. He swallowed dryly and pinched his eyes shut.

 _It can't hurt me. It isn't even there_ , he thought in a desperate attempt to keep the fright and panic from overtaking him.

He shifted on his throbbing bottom and gazed over his shoulder to the wall above his head. He turned and with one hand, he gripped the chain. He braced both feet against the wall but that put pressure onto his tail and immediately a bolt of pain raced up his spine. He jerked and dropped his legs with a hiss of pain. The doors opened and he jumped and scrambled back into the corner.

"No, no, no," he started to babble, unable to stop himself as his body began to quiver and shake.

Malcolm's singing carried down to him, ". . . to call my own, I wanna dream lover, so I don't have to dream alone . . . Please don't make me dream alone . . ."

Mikey covered his ears with the heels of his sticky hands and closed his eyes.  _"Please no. Please,"_  he whispered.

The stairs creaked and Malcolm stopped singing. "Aw, you look so cute all curled up like that."

Malcolm looked around. He wrinkled his nose at the large puddle of blood left from where he'd torn into Kenso's body. The coppery stench of blood was enough to make him cover his mouth and nose with one hand. "Ugh. Let's get you cleaned up."

Malcolm looked at the tub then at Kenso's head. He smirked and wagged a finger at it. "Ah, ah. No peeking," he said with a chuckle and climbed up onto the mattress.

Mikey felt the shifting weight of Malcolm's body as he came closer. He laid a hand on Mikey's shoulder and Mikey cried out and cramped himself into a tighter ball.

Malcolm's voice was close to his ear, "Now, now. Relax," he said, then gasped. "Mikey! You're hurt!"

He grabbed at Michelangelo's sliced arm and Mikey quailed at the man's touch. He knew being around Malcolm would be hard after watching him rip apart the ninja, and having been raped by the man, but he didn't anticipate how terrified he would feel with the man so close to him. How weak and vulnerable he would feel. Helpless. Like a sick child. It was only after the chains rattled and fell away that Mikey realized that Malcolm had undone the collar around his throat.

"C'mon, sweetheart, let's get you into the house," Malcolm purred and helped Mikey to stand on legs that made of jelly. He could barely stand, he was so very tired and weak.

 _Run! Run now! Mikey, Run!_ the voice shrieked in his mind, but Mikey could only lean on Malcolm as he helped him up the stairs, each step a stumbling effort through weakness and terrible pain. Each fumbling movement forward encouraged with soft words and gentle support.

The voice pleaded and begged, cursed and shrieked in Mikey's mind, but all Mikey could focus on was the tender way that he was being supported; soaking in and believing every utterance of Malcolm's promised safety and care. Malcolm's steady murmuring was like a hypnotic rhythm of soothing nonsense. But it lulled his mind enough to ignore the spears of pain he felt with each step.

"I'm going to clean you all up, wash off all that icky blood and get your arm all bandaged really good. I'll get you something for the pain, too. I have some pills that will take it all away. Aw, it hurts? I can tell you're hurting by the way you're panting like that. It'll be okay. I swore I'd take good care of you, remember? I love you, Mikey. Aw, I love you so much. You're the most wonderful thing in the world to me, you know that. Oh, here, put your arm like this over my shoulders. There, that's better. I'm here for you, Mikey. I'll always be here.

He knew he should be trying to escape. That now was his best chance yet, but . . . he was so tired; so weak he could barely carry his own weight.

His head swam with the lingering effects of the drugs in his system and the dizziness made him lean into Malcolm's body. Through the snow they moved and Mikey allowed Malcolm to lead him up the short flight of stairs and into the house.

The front door clicked quietly closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikey is breaking. 
> 
> Thoughts?


	13. Brushstrokes of Madness

_"Soon madness has worn you down. It's easier to do what it says than argue...You believe anything it says._

_You do what it tells you, no matter how extreme or absurd._

_If it says you're worthless, you agree._

_You plead for it to stop. You promise to behave. You are on your knees before it,_

_and it laughs."_ -Marya Hornbacher

* * *

 

 ** _"Will you still love me when I'm not beautiful?"_**  -Lana Del Rey,  _Young and Beautiful_

* * *

 

He didn't know how, but somehow he stood in a narrow bathroom with a low ceiling. The wall paper was peeling up from the knotted pine baseboard. It was like he was standing in a dream, or a nightmare.

The brutal events of the past few hours seemed a blur in his mind. It was hard to think. He felt groggy with the temperature shift. His skin had gotten used to the bitter cold of the shelter in the back yard and just standing in the warmth of the small room gave him a heady, dizzy feeling; like his skin was tingling all over. The bottoms of his feet were aching and his toes cramped. He wanted to lay down and sleep more than anything.

Mikey leaned against the wall as Malcolm filled the tub with steaming water. The vapors rose up to the peeling ceiling. With red rimmed eyes, Mikey watched them float in the air. His knees wobbled and he started to slide down to sit on the floor.

Smiling, Malcolm twisted towards him. When the man turned, a flash of panic made Mikey shiver and freeze up before he took him by the hand and pulled him forward. With hesitant steps and a shaking body, Mikey complied. He didn't want to fight, didn't have the strength. His limbs felt both heavy and weak. And in this cramped space, Mikey only felt more vulnerable and cornered. The blood was making his skin itchy and the smell continued to turn his empty stomach. He wanted to be clean. He wanted this.

A sharp coil of shame wound in his gut.

"Time to get you cleaned up. How's that sound? Hm? Get all that grime off you, my sweet."

Michelangelo gave no reply, kept his eyes lowered, head down, shoulders hunched. Gingerly Malcolm helped Mikey into the tub. With stiff reluctant movements, Mikey allowed himself to be supported as he stepped over the wall of the tub into the waiting water. The feel of the warm water against his legs made him cry out. The sensation strangely intimate. Sensual.

His mind veered to the other night, with coming out of the basin of water, then the mattress, Malcolm on him, touching him, holding him down, thrusting into him. His fingers dug into Malcolm's arms as he stared with gritted teeth and wide eyes at his captor. Panic raced through his veins. He wanted to run. To push Malcolm away and flee, but his body wouldn't cooperate. As if it knew there'd be no chance for him and in animal, instinctual self-preservation, refused the commands of his brain. Choosing to survive over struggling and succumbing to certain death. The mixed signals made him shake violently and grind his teeth together and whine pathetically.

He let go of Malcolm and gripped the side of the tub with pale-knuckled tension, body stiff and tense with fear and pain.

"Shh, easy," Malcolm murmured and eased Michelangelo down into the water by inches, supporting him by his rigid arms. "There you go." Malcom chuckled as his eyes swept over Mikey immersed in the tepid water. "Bet that feels good. I'd climb in there with you, but let's not get distracted, okay? Let's stay calm and on task."

A small whimper escaped from between his lips. Mikey didn't know if Malcolm was speaking to himself or to him.

The water eased the throb in his swollen tail. It slushed around him with every small movement, catching the light and sparkling in a way that had Mikey losing his concentration as he gazed at it. He wanted to stick his face into the water and drink it down deeply, but the sensations of it running over his aching body was nearly too much to handle. The water instantly went from clear to pink to gray as the blood and filth came free from his skin.

Mikey panted and couldn't hold back the soft frightened whining sound repeatedly escaping from his parched throat as Malcolm gently worked the wash cloth over his chest and neck. He turned his face away from Malcolm and rested his head in the corner of the tub and wall, eyes closed. Wishing he were somewhere else, but feeling so grateful to be somewhere warm, to have the soldier's blood washed from him. His mind was a confused fog of fear and pleasure.

Malcolm tsk'd and hummed as he worked the rag over and around the crevices of his plastron.

Mikey did his best to ignore the way the rag felt, the way it moved so intimately over his chest down his stomach . . . Mikey's eyes shot open and he jerked as Malcolm's hand strayed too low but seeing his alarm, Malcolm quickly returned the rag to his chest. Blinking and trembling, Mikey slowly eased back to his original position, finally closing his eyes as Malcolm hummed a familiar song. Clamping his eyes even tighter, Mikey wanted to cover his ears and block out the melody. He'd come to dread Malcolm's favorite tune.

Ignorant of Mikey's dislike of the song, Malcolm continued humming and sometimes quietly singing parts of the lyrics. He cleaned Mikey's shoulders with small circular motions and then gently with a fresh cloth and a bucket of warm water next to the tub, he started on his wounded arm.

"Going to try not to hurt you." He pinched the edges of the laceration closed and wiped it down then applied an antibacterial cream, patting it with his fingertips. "That bastard. How dare he hurt my baby. Well, we got him good, didn't we, Mikey," Malcolm giggled and cleared his throat. "I told you, we make a great team. I'll get better medical supplies the next time I go to work. They didn't have much here. I was surprised. Usually these places are stocked solid."

As Malcolm rattled on, Mikey did his best to block him out. He tried to imagine being at home. Being cared for by his father, but the very moment he tried to picture Splinter instead of Malcolm next to him, his mind violently rejected it.

Malcolm was a monster. A madman. No matter how hard Mikey tried to pretend he was safe, his mind knew he wasn't. Not for a moment. Despite his mind being confused and fogged, he couldn't let his guard down.

He sucked in his breath as the man patted the flesh dry and began to wrap it in a thick bandage, tight but not so tight that it cut off any circulation. He then picked up a roll of tape and taped the thick pad securely. The arm was a throbbing beat that sent a numb pain up into Mikey's bicep and shoulder. But now that it was cleaned and wrapped, it felt somewhat better.

Malcolm set the arm carefully outside of the tub. He dipped a fresh rag into the warm water and began to clean the dirt and blood from his face. With one finger, Malcolm turned Mikey's face towards him. It was swollen and bruised in places.

Malcolm's face crushed with sympathy, forgetting the fact that Mikey was so beaten at his own hands, he chose instead to blame all of the turtle's injuries on Kenso. "I will never let anyone ever hurt you again. Do you hear me, Mikey?" He paused. "Look at me," he commanded softly.

With some reluctance, Michelangelo opened his eyes. As they focused on Malcolm's face, so close to his, he whimpered.

Malcolm frowned, taking in the blood shot eyes, the dark circles. His eyes lingered on Mikey's cracked and puffy bottom lip. He moved closer, coming in for a kiss when Mikey inhaled sharply and kicked, jerking back and sloshing the water in a great wave.

Malcolm stiffened, face darkening.

Mikey's eyes widened as his hand slipped along the side of the tub, as though still trying to get space between them, but having nowhere to go. Knowing that Malcolm was capable of harming him in any number of ways, the last thing he wanted to do was make the man angry. But there was no way he'd just let him kiss him. He struggled for a moment more before settling down as Malcolm made no further moves towards him. Mikey braced himself for a violent reaction, trembling in the water so hard that it rippled and sparkled around him.

But the man only sat there. After a moment, he cast his gaze to one side and licked at his lip, chewing on the corner before snapping his pale eyes back to Mikey.

"You poor thing. You've been through so much. If I had any idea that Kenso would come here to hurt you, I would have taken him out sooner. But I'll make it better." He reached out to stroke Mikey's face and the young turtle stiffened. Malcolm dropped his hand away. His eyes grew flat and distant. Then they shifted and gleamed. "Oh! I'm an idiot!" he cried out. "I told you I'd get you something for that pain."

Mikey could only stare and pant from between clenched teeth as Malcolm stood up abruptly and turned. He pulled open a glass cabinet and removed several containers that rattled with pills. He shook several into his palm, paused as if thinking and added another with a shrug. He moved back to Mikey and the turtle shook his head.

"N-No, please. I-I don't want any." He didn't know what those were, but the water he drank the other day left him still feeling woozy and strange. He feared what eating all these pills was doing to him.

"Now, don't be stubborn. We both know you're in pain. I can tell the way you're acting around me. All stiff and jumpy. You don't have to be the tough guy here." He took in a breath and said in a sly voice, "It's only you and I, Mikey. You're brothers aren't here. You can just be yourself."

Mikey froze for a second. Eyes wide. Fearful. Malcolm's reassurances spoke to his deeper fears of inadequacy. The confusion deepened. Then he shook his head sharply in denial, ignoring the wave of dizziness it caused in doing so. This nutcase had no right to act as though he understood him better than his own family. Even through the haze of the remnants of the drugs in his system, Mikey knew that was wrong. This guy didn't know him. Or his brothers.

Mustering his courage and any last strings of strength he had, he growled, "I don't want them!"

Malcolm's hand shot out and snatched Mikey's face, pinching hard until his mouth opened. Mikey struggled, splashing water over the side of the tub, grabbing at Malcolm's wrist. But quickly Malcolm shoved the small white pills into his mouth and covered it with his hand, pressing hard as Mikey shook his head back and forth, flailing in the gray cooling water.

"Swallow."

Mikey clenched his eyes shut. He dug his fingers at the edges of Malcolm's hand, but the man slapped his hands away. Mikey tried moving the pills around his battered sore mouth, doing his best to push them out with his tongue, only to smash them against his teeth and lips, causing them to dissolve into a chalky powder. Reflexively he swallowed, unable to stop himself. He choked and made a muffled moan through his nose and Malcolm let him go.

He sat back on his heels as Mikey shook his head and scrunched up his face in a sour expression. Malcolm stared at him. The look on his face was grim satisfaction. Malcolm then twisted where he sat and produced a cup of water. He brought a small plastic cup to Mikey's mouth.

With shaking hands, Mikey took it and drank it down. It did little to wash away the chalky flavor coating his tongue.

Blinking he stared into the empty cup. His eyes crossed and refocused as the cup doubled and tripled in his grip. His body began to grow tingly and light. Like he was being lifted out of the water. Filling with bubbles.

He dropped the cup and gripped the sides of the tub in an attempt to remain grounded. His eyelids fluttered. His head swam and his glassy gaze slowly turned to Malcolm. The man watched him carefully and then smiled. As promised the pain immediately began to recede into the background where it was joined with the white noise of panic, terror, self-loathing and shame. Mikey found his mouth turning up in a matching, albeit, softer grin.

"You're feeling better already, aren't you? You have an empty stomach so I knew those would act fast."

Mikey bobbed his head and stared at the cup as it bobbed in the glittering water much the same way. But his heart began to race and his jaw clenched painfully. His body started to tremble. Malcolm's voice was slow and distorted and for a moment he thought he heard Donatello's voice coming at him.

"Stay calm. You're having a reaction. That's all."

"Oh." The response seemed to stretch out from his lips and form a long train of sound that rolled out of his mouth like an undulating caterpillar. He could almost see the invisible segments bouncing along, mingling with the waves of the water sloshing around him. But still his body trembled and shook and he started to breathe shallow and heavy from between his gritted teeth.

"Hey, are you cold?" Malcolm reached out near his feet.

The faucet squealed as he turned it on. It sounded like an animal shrieking in pain. Mikey jumped.

The water was sloshing, gurgling, bubbling. Hot near his feet, foaming into a million tiny bubbles and making his shins tingle where it rippled against his skin. He giggled. It was cut short as Malcolm's hand went from the faucet to his right knee. Mikey focused on the man's hand as it squeezed him a little. His fingers were soft and warm. Malcolm's hand glided downwards to firmly knead the muscular thigh.

Mikey gave a little gasp as the sensation drove up into his groin with a sharp jolt. A feeling of warmth spread through his loins and it sent a disconcerting mixed signal through his mind. Mikey's hand shot out and grasped Malcolm by the arm just below the elbow as the man's hand moved closer to his body.

"N-No," he pleaded. "I . . . I . . ." He trailed off, shooting Malcolm a pleading look in his eyes.

Malcolm tilted his head. With his left hand he reached out and caressed Mikey's face; fingertips stroking his cheek over and over until, unlike a few moments ago when he pulled away, Mikey found himself leaning into the gentle touch and his grip lessened on the man's arm. The touch was so tender, it was almost painful. His voice so pacifying. Hypnotic.

"I won't hurt you, I promise. Okay? Okay, Mikey? I'm going to make you feel good, lover. Real good."

A soft frown puckered around Mikey's eyes. There was a drum beat in his ears and it was hard to hear what the man was saying. Or rather, he could hear him. He just didn't understand what was being said exactly. Everything was muddled.

All he knew was that it was soft and soothing and his hurting was gone and nothing the man was doing was causing him any pain at the moment. And though there was something troubling, something dark and frightening at the edge of his mind's eye, he just couldn't focus on it. He let go of Malcolm's arm, suddenly unsure of why he grabbed it in the first place.

Breathlessly, Mikey said, "I-I wanna go home. I-I need to . . ."

Malcolm continued to stroke his thigh. Up and down. Slowly. Firmly. "Your home is with me."

"B-But, my brothers. I want to be with them."

Malcolm pointedly kept his gaze locked on Mikey's leg. He brought his hand down between his legs and cupped Michelangelo's lower body.

Mikey went rigid and fidgeted but Malcolm kept his hand there, not squeezing, not groping . . . just holding him. A whimper bubbled out of him. Something slick moved through the air between them. Something powerful and dominating, making Mikey shrink into himself.

"Why?" Malcolm asked and the question bounced through the air, off the tiles, around Mikey's face.

The young turtle flinched away from it. Then froze as Malcolm began to move his fingers, slowly, in a small circle, gently tugging at the flap of skin keeping him hidden.

The gentle urging of the man's fingers sent waves of prickling pleasure up through his groin into his stomach. It was tickling, shivering, softly electric. Mikey's galloping heart tripped as his traitorous body began to slide free, hardening and moving with a will of its own, despite his fear and confusion. He cried out as Malcolm rubbed against the sensitive tip.

Oh god, it felt  _good_. The water. His hands. The way the room was floating. Mikey's knees opened wider. His hands clutched at the edge of the tub.

His mind begged for it to stop. His body wanted more. Needed it after all the pain. To feel good. Oh and it did. It felt so good.

Mikey whimpered again as his hips rolled upwards even as his mind pulled back. Malcolm's face continued to stare between his legs, not looking at him directly, but Mikey could see the muscles in his face contort as he smiled. And before he could stop it, his rigid flesh emerged with a light gasp. Malcolm's hand encircled him and the feeling made Mikey's head fall back. He moaned and his eyes filled with tears.

This was wrong. It was wonderful. What was happening?

"There you are," Malcolm whispered in a reverent voice. "Oh, I knew you'd be magnificent. I never knew you'd be this beautiful."

Mikey felt like he was losing his sanity. He was being torn in half. His body going one way and his mind the other. "H-Help me," Mikey murmured in soft distress.

"Oh, I will," Malcolm replied eagerly. He wrapped his fingers around Mikey and stroked him firmly. The man's hand was so soft, so smooth and sure on him.

Mikey's eyes snapped open. His right fist grabbed Malcolm's sleeve. His opposite hand slammed against the tiled wall. He felt like the room was suddenly spinning out of control. Around and around and around. Too fast. Too much. It was . . . something was . . . happening to him. The water was splashing, his thighs were quaking, his body was burning, heart thrumming, stomach flipping. His tail was throbbing, sending waves of pain following the jolts of pleasure.

And Malcolm wouldn't stop his aggressive motions.

_"S-Stop!"_

"Never."

Mikey squirmed, gasped and panted as Malcolm pumped his flesh in short, quick motions. His heels dug and slid against the slippery floor of the tub. The back of his head ground against the tiles. His muscles bunched. His body tensed.

"Ah!  _AH!_  Please! Unf! Oh!"

Malcolm laughed. "I know! You like that, don't you! Oh, look at you. Look at how big you are! How thick! Oh, I can't wait to have you inside me!"

Mikey went icy with terror as the words pierced his panicked and heated mind. Did he mean . . . he wanted . . . No,  _no_! He'd never ever do that. Another spear of pleasure followed by a cramp of pain went through him. A groan erupted from him. Disgust at himself swept through him, replaced with surges of intense pleasure. It flooded through him in steadily strengthening drifts.

His back arched and the top of his head braced against the wall as his entire body bucked. His jaw clenched so hard his back teeth creaked in protest. His heart seemed like it was trying to burst from his chest. Malcolm's laughter faded as bolt after bolt of sharp pleasure racked his body as he climaxed. Mikey's hoarse, loud cry brought Malcolm's laughter to a stop. The shout of pleasure melted and morphed into an agonized sob as Mikey's body finished its brittle contractions. Spent and exhausted, he fell back into the tainted water with a large splash. He curled into himself, wrists going to cover his eyes as his broken cries filled the air.

He was a monster. He was filth. He wanted to die.

Malcolm swirled his hand in the water and pulled the plug with a jerk. He turned his pale eyes back to Mikey. He considered him in silence. Irritation flashed over his features.

"Enough," he said quietly. Mikey continued with his broken sobbing. "Enough, I said."

It was clear that he wasn't getting through to the young turtle. He stood up and gripping Mikey by the wrists dragged him to stand. Mikey jumped and quailed, his legs quivered as his knees knocked into one another. His manhood hung partially limp, still exposed. Malcolm grabbed it. Twisting it hard in his fist. Mikey let out a squeal of pain as Malcolm jerked him forward. Bringing him eye to eye.

"No more crying. Come with me."

He gave Mikey another harsh pull.

Mikey squeaked and nodded his understanding. Sniffling and moaning, Mikey struggled to get out of the tub as Malcolm finally released him. But the room was jerking to one side and the floor continued to pitch to the left and right. He slipped and fell forward in a tangled mess of heavy limbs. His hand frantically grabbed out and pulled a towel from a rack. It fell over his face. His elbow smacked against the hard rim of the toilet as he went down onto the floor covered in puddles. His hands slipped and fumbled as he wrestled to right himself.

Malcolm reached down and grasped his shell. He heaved him out of the tub. Mikey slid forward and slammed his head against the door. Immediately, he curled into a ball and moaned.

He felt dirtier now than before he entered the bath. What just happened? How could he have . . . His family would never forgive this. Never.

"Get up."

A moment passed without anyone moving. But then Mikey abruptly started as he sensed Malcolm looming over him. Terror shot through him. With a roll of his abdominal muscles, he pulled his softened flesh back into the protective pocket beneath his lower plastron.

With a frightened whine, he scrambled and clambered to his knees. Then with Malcolm hoisting him up, he climbed to stand on quivering legs. He spun around. Shell to the corner. Trembling hands held up in a defensive pose.

"D-Don't."

Malcolm shoved him. Mikey quailed.

"Don't what? Huh? What's the matter with you, eh? Didn't you enjoy that?" Miserable, Mikey shook his head. "Don't lie to  _me_!" Malcolm stepped back then rushed forward again, grabbing Mikey's shoulders and pulled him forward only to slam him back into the wall. Mikey cried out and moaned.

"What's the matter with you?!" Panting, Malcolm's eyes bounced around as they roved over his face. Searching for an answer. He had Mikey by the sides of his head, keeping it upright. His fingers dug into the flesh as he kneaded and pressed. Mikey ground his teeth and kept his eyes shut. In a hoarse whisper, Malcolm said, "Oh, I get it. I know what you want. It's just like before. Dammit! Why!? Why must you do this to me? I would give you whatever you want, but . . . but you're never satisfied unless it's exactly what you want. Are you?! You . . . you just take and take and it's never enough! Is it?" Malcolm's voice rose shrilly.

It seemed to be pounding down on Mikey from the walls and ceiling. It felt like he was shrinking smaller and smaller until he ended up on his knees before Malcolm. The man's hand was on the top of his head.

The room fell into an eerie quiet. Mikey's heart was stampeding through his head. His stomach was roiling. His chest squeezed as he gasped for air from between his painfully clenching teeth. He felt like he was about to pass out. There was a shuffling sound.

Malcolm's voice broke through the silence. It was level and even. Breathless but not harsh. There was a finality in the tone that chilled Michelangelo and sent a fresh wave of anxiety through him. "I told you that we were going to talk about being selfish lovers, Mikey. You can't keep doing this to me. It-It isn't fair," his voice broke. "You can't expect to demand my body and not give in return. No. It's my turn now."

He felt Malcolm's fingers digging into the top and back of his head; giving him a sharp shake. Mikey opened his eyes a crack. He was face to face with Malcolm's exposed, rigid flesh. He fell back, scrambling into the corner, rising and falling.

"Wh-What . . . n-no."

Malcolm's eyes glittered, so grey they almost disappeared into the whites. He peered down at Mikey like a pale demon. "It's time you give me something."

Agonized and despondent, Mikey, his head being urged forward by the madman's hand, nodded in cowed compliance.

"Oh-Oh kay . . .  _okay_ ," he stammered in a sniffling quiet voice.

He had fallen so far. What more could be taken from him? What act would be worse than what he'd just done. He couldn't imagine his family's shame deepening with any further disgrace.

They would never take him back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really hoped I captured the intensity of this chapter like it was in my head. Has Mikey completely broken? Hang on for the next chapter sweet readers. 
> 
> And remember to breathe. Gotta remind myself as I'm writing. Reviews make this writer very very happy :D


	14. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own nothing but my twisted imagination.
> 
> Haven't had to warn my sweet readers in a while, but this one warrants it. A brutal chapter awaits below. I swear, I held my breath as I wrote this and couldn't stop until I reached the ending. What a rush. 
> 
> But be warned, non-con assaults and rough violence abound. If that's not your thing, please, feel free to skip this chapter, as this will probably be the worst one of all... 
> 
> however,  
> if you are enjoying the thrill ride of this tale of horror, then once again, I shall get the hell outta your way...

_"Got your hands bound – your head down – your eyes closed._

_You look so precious now."_ – Tool,  _Prison Sex_

* * *

 

_"The breath I've taken and the one I must to go on._

_Put the grenade pin in your hand, so you understand who's boss._

_My defeat sleeps top to toe with her success…."_ –Matilda, Alt-J

* * *

 

 

Karai collapsed onto the leather sofa in her living room. Again, she pulled the cell phone from the pocket in her slacks to check for any messages from Kenso. It wasn't like him to leave her without a word, even to simply inform her that he was on task. The man was diligent and thorough.

A worm of worry was beginning to wiggle in the back of her mind. However, the notion that anything could have possibly happened to him was beyond ridiculous. He was sent merely to shadow Malcolm, nothing more. Had he determined it was necessary to actually make contact with the imbecile, she was certain that Malcolm was no match for Kenso. Her knee bounced with irritation. What could be keeping him from reporting?

She tapped the phone lightly against her leg, then held it up again. She scrolled through to the number Donatello had given her. At the memory of the purple clad terrapin, Karai shivered.

She hoped that was the last dealings she would have to endure with that one. Something about him was unsettling. It wasn't just the intelligence in his eyes, but somehow looking into them made her feel as if she was standing on the edge of bottomless pit. Anything could dwell within the dark depths of those dark eyes. She swallowed and looked again at the number. Leonardo's personal number. Just looking at it there made her heart flutter. It was as if she held a part of him in her hand.

She was tempted to call. Just to hear his voice. Then what? Hang up? Her hand fell away as she huffed.

"This is absurd. I'm behaving like a school girl with a crush," she said with some disgust. And yet, the temptation remained. She stood up and paced.

He had looked back at her. She had seen it with her own eyes. Whatever feelings were bruised with his discovery of her . . . interactions with his brother could heal, she was sure. But waiting for him to come to see reason was not something she was prepared to do. Never a woman to allow fate to make its decisions for her, or to sit idly by as things worked themselves out for better or worse, she knew action was needed.

In order to secure herself in his heart the way she wanted, no, the way she  _deserved_ , she had to deliver his brother. The sooner the better. Karai just knew this was the key to smoothing things out between them. She had to find Michelangelo. And her instinct was screaming that Malcolm has something to do with his disappearance.

"Kenso, where are you?"

She ran her hands through her hair and growled out in frustration. Hefting the phone in her hand, she stared at it. Finally, she closed her eyes. She took in a breath. She'd give Kenso the time he deserved. Then she would contact him.

The only reason she had not tried to get in touch with him sooner was the delicate nature of the task she had assigned him. She could not risk a dull ring tone or even a vibrating noise to give away his location in the event that he was concealed. Weak-minded fool that he was, Malcolm was still a trained ninja. She would not compromise Kenso. Not yet. She would resort to tracking him if she had to.

In fact, she decided as she placed the phone on the coffee table, she would give him a day, then that was  _exactly_  what she would do. Track him. If Kenso hadn't contacted her within 48 hours from the time she last saw him, then she would know for certain that something had gone wrong.

"He'd better have a good reason why he didn't report," she muttered and pulled her top over her head and crossed the room to her bathroom for a long soak in the tub.

Thoughts of Leonardo resurfacing in the back of her mind, warming her. Though, truth be told, she'd have liked a visit from his brother after such a long stressful day. Raphael was always good at working the stress from her body. He'd wring every last drop of it from her before he'd finish, then hold her in those arms like constrictors, so tightly . . . all night . . . as though he were afraid to let her go.

She shook her head as she slipped from her slacks and started the bath. No good thinking of Raphael now. That situation was over. Dead. The way he looked at her tonight told her without a doubt he was done with her. He looked as if he was ready to tear her limb from limb. But thankfully, Leonardo had stopped him. Yet another sign that Leonardo's heart was not decided. Not yet.

_He looked back. I will win his heart, yet._

# # #

Mikey reluctantly leaned forward as Malcolm guided his head towards his body. He closed his eyes and brought his arms up, wrapping them around the man's waist. He turned his face and pressed his cheek against Malcolm's length, embracing him. Malcolm's body jerked and he made a soft sound with the contact. Michelangelo stayed that way, holding him, all the while trembling with his eyes closed. He felt Malcolm stroking the top of his head. After a moment, though, Malcolm started to pull away.

Mikey eased back, eyes open and locked upwards to meet Malcolm's cool gaze, avoiding the rigid flesh only an inch away from his face. A soft smile played along the edge of the man's mouth. He jerked his hips at Mikey and the turtle flinched back.

"That was nice, Mikey. I like hugs. But now you give me what I deserve," Malcolm said quietly.

Mikey blinked at him, trying to get his eyesight to focus. Trying to understand what Malcolm wanted. The row of lights behind Malcolm's head were turning different colors and bouncing, making him feel disorientated and dizzy. The room tipped to one side then swayed a little before it rocked to the other.

The grip on the back of his head tightened and Malcolm forced him forward. Michelangelo's lips swept across his penis and Malcolm groaned, grinding it hard into Mikey's mouth, clenched shut, lips pressed tightly together. Mikey's face turned to the side as he shook his head, vaguely starting to understand what the man wanted from him. His heart sped up and his stomach turned. He braced his hands on the front of Malcolm's hips. Pushing weakly away from him.

"N-No," he choked out, strangled by terror and revulsion.

Malcolm took the sides of his head in both hands, ramming his cock hard into Mikey's mouth, splitting his lips apart. Mikey struggled weakly, shell against the wall, as Malcolm jammed his hips forward.

Finally, Mikey's mouth opened with a cry of disgust and it was filled with the man's flesh. The taste of salt and musk overwhelmed him. He moaned and growled, choking as Malcolm slowly pulled back and thrust forward, deeper into the back of his mouth. Tears spilled down his cheeks. The feel of the man's thick member against his tongue and lips mixing with the tang of his pre-cum made his stomach roil.

Anger suddenly spiked within his frantic heart.

No! He didn't want to do this! He wouldn't!  _He wouldn't!_

The panic and fright, the repulsion and fury rose up and engulfed him. The room bled red around him as his eyes went white with rage. The salty, fleshy taste was replaced by the cloying, bitter, coppery flavor of hot blood as Mikey's jaws clamped down. The howling shriek out from the depths of Malcolm's chest brought a wicked sense of satisfaction.

With a simple twist of his head, he knew he could tear the now softening flesh free, but his gentle spirit, battered and abused, endured still, and something held him back from this savage act of revenge. In a blur of movement, he released Malcolm and the man fell back with a broken shout.

Mikey's mind screamed _, Run! Go! Run!_

Malcolm continued to howl and shudder in agony where he lay collapsed in a heap on the floor, holding his bloody fists over his groin.

Mikey spared not a moment to even consider the man. He scrambled and lumbered to climb to stand on legs that felt like they were attached to someone else's body. It took too long to find the door knob and when he finally did, his fingers couldn't seem to understand how to operate it and it took both hands to grasp it firmly enough to twist and pull. Malcolm's body blocked it from opening all the way and Mikey whimpered and groaned as he strained to squeeze through the narrow opening. He squirmed and flailed until he stumbled out into a dark hallway with a victorious cry.

The corridor seemed to stretch and extend out impossibly far in both directions as Mikey twisted and tried to make out which way to go. His mind was a repeating shriek of  _run, run, run_ , with each drum beat of his pounding heart.

He spun on his heel. His face darted one side then the other. His legs carried him across the way and he fell against the opposite wall. The ceiling danced and suddenly the hallway was above him, under him, over him. He cried out with disorientation and fright. What was happening to him?

Too late, he realized that he was tumbling down a flight of stairs.

His head cracked against the edge of the steps. His kicking legs carried over, banging into the wall as he rolled, unable to stop his downward trajectory. His aching tail struck a stair as his weight came down onto it and he screamed. But the sound was cut off with his breath as his temple crashed into the steps as he fell forward. The wind was forced from his lungs as he slammed and tumbled down to the hardwood floor below.

He lay in a broken heap on his shell, stunned and unmoving. He tried to remember how to breathe as his chest squeezed, demanding air.

 _"Haah, haah,"_  he panted, feeling the coursing pain throbbing over his entire body.

Dazed, he cracked his eyes open in time to see a ghost hovering at the very top of the stairs above him. His fingers dug at the floor next to him.

_Get to your feet!_

His vision blurred and his head spun and the ghost was closer.

_Move!_

He blinked and groaned; trying to turn to his side. His body felt heavy and clumsy. It jerked and floundered.

_Get up!_

The ghost materialized into the clear form of Malcolm. Mikey whimpered.

_Too late!_

The man's pale face was twisted nearly beyond recognition; his expression deformed and terrible. Mangled into a demon's face full of hatred and rage.

Mikey started and with flailing arms, tried to get his bearings to roll over onto his hands and knees. He just managed to when he was kicked in the ribs. The force knocked him to the side and he rolled. Malcolm stomped onto his bandaged arm and Mikey howled in pain. His aching head took the next blow. Mouth filling with his own blood, mingling with the salty, bitter taste of Malcolm still on his tongue, he choked on his yelp.

He spun instinctively to shield himself with his shell, curling in to a ball; bracing himself to be torn to pieces. The floor beneath his thighs grew wet as his terror released his control on his bodily functions.

But instead of more blows to his body, he felt Malcolm grip him around one ankle. He kicked with clumsy effort. Bucked his body. Twisted and shouted. Clawed at the floor until the fingernails splintered and cracked and his fingertips bled. Malcolm dragged him across the dusty floor of the dim foyer; leaving a trail of blood, sweat and other body fluids behind.

At the front door, the man twisted. He snarled and made strangled sounds between a string of curses and words that Mikey couldn't understand. The language was garbled and more growls than any human language that existed. Malcolm viciously kicked Michelangelo in the groin several times, keeping his ankle suspended, legs spread to offer no resistance or protection.

Mikey's world was a bright agony. Wave after wave of constricting pain crushed him. His cries turned to hoarse animal sounds of pain and misery. Escape from the horrible pain was the only coherent thought. But there was no way out; there was nowhere to flee from the relentless pain.

Moonlight reflected off the snow as the cold air blasted over his shaking, wet flesh. His body tumbled down the snowy steps in a disjointed pile of limbs. He landed with a grunt and a moan. He crawled forward with quaking arms. Fingers digging into the icy snow, fists curling, searching for something to grasp onto, face sliding with eyes clamped tight. Another blow had him rolling to the side. Then another as Malcolm steadily but surely moved him towards the shelter's doors by kicking and shoving him.

Every instinct in Mikey knew,  _knew,_  that he could not go back into that dungeon. He would met his death there.

But before he could even try to make a move to fight or escape, his body was lifted out of the slush and gore by the rim of his shell. The tension pulled at the ligaments keeping his shell attached to his back. Then tumbling once more, he fell into the darkness. He lumbered forward, smearing the sticky pool of blood remaining from the Foot solider's gruesome demise with his scrambling arms, elbows, knees and ankles. Trying and failing to rise up and stand.

Malcolm's hand gripped his throat and forced him back and up onto the mattress. The collar was snapped into place as Mikey squirmed and fought, snapping now with jaws swollen and bloody, doing everything in his frenzied, drug-addled state would allow to try and break free. An elbow struck his snout, a knee went to his ribs. Mikey gasped, momentarily laying still to catch his breath.

Then Malcolm reached up and yanked, pulling down the long horizontal bar that hung over the mattress down to waist level. The chains suspending it through large rings attached to the ceiling rattled and creaked, screaming along with Mikey's strangled growling and Malcolm's nonsensical ranting and cursing.

Mikey flailed uselessly as Malcolm brought first one leg then another up and over the bar. He secured his calves with the attached leather belts, forcing Mikey's legs to spread wide. Mikey bucked and thrashed, but was unable to do much now that his bottom half was up high, off the mattress, forcing the back of his head hard into the mattress. The metal collar around his neck was strangling him. But still he fought as Malcolm grabbed a wrist and snapped a restraint around it. The cold steel bit into his heated, tender flesh. He punched weakly and with little impact as Malcolm wrestled with his free arm, finally restraining it the same as his other. The spacer bar was in place between his bleeding wrists, attached to a short chain connected to the metal bar supporting his legs.

Malcolm staggered back. He fell eerily silent. Panting, hair mussed, groin painted in a dark red stain, he turned and pulled on a chain. Mikey's arms went up over his head as his knees were forced all the way back over his chest. He squirmed and wiggled and snarled. He screamed and sobbed.

Malcolm hung on the chain, staring at him with a blank expression. Devoid of any emotion. His gray eyes were flat and faraway.

Crying and gasping, Mikey stared at him, pleading with his eyes from his awkward position. His sobs turned into a repeating whimpering, whining sound as Malcolm slowly looked around as though only now discovering where they were. He let go of the chain and turned as if in a dream. He looked over his shoulder and found Kenso's head where he left it.

With a trembling finger that he wagged at Mikey, Malcolm told Kenso's head, "Watch him." Then he limped to the side of the room and fell to his knees. He picked up the cattle prod and considered it for a few seconds before he tossed it to one side. He didn't want to kill the boy. Just teach him a lesson. He pulled the duffle bag close to his chest and for a moment he hugged it to himself and rocked, mumbling and sniffling. A few minutes passed and then with a ragged sigh, he stopped. When he turned around he held a thick rubber band in one hand.

Mikey's nunchucks in his other.

Voice full of despair, Malcolm said, "Now I have to hurt you."

Mikey started a renewed attempt to break free. He squirmed and struggled, growled and groaned. The chains rattled, the restraints remained as before. He felt Malcolm's hand rest on one knee and he froze.

"M-Mal," Mikey ground out. "P-Please d-don't . . . I . . . I-I'm  _sorry_ ," he choked on the apology, feeling deeply shamed for being so weak as to ask for forgiveness to try and get out of experiencing any more pain. He made himself sick.

"I appreciate the apology, I really do," Malcolm said.

He jumped as Malcolm caressed his throbbing, swollen tail. Then the man gripped it and with swift movements, he wound the rubber band over and around and around the base of Mikey's tail. Winding it tightly. The fragile flesh covering the thick appendage could not withstand the sharp edge of the band and began to bleed as it cut through.

Like his primitive cousins, Michelangelo's tail was thick and muscular, but unlike them, the skin covering it was delicate and thin. The effect of the rough handling was instantaneous. Electric pain shot up through his spine and down his thighs making his ankles and feet jerk. Immediately, his tail began to tingle which was swiftly replaced with a terrible pressure. It felt like his tail was blowing up like a balloon, expanding and expanding until he was sure it would burst. The pain was a steadily increasing pressure, threatening to drive him mad.

 _"Haah! Haaah! Ungh, anngh,"_ Mikey groaned and ground his teeth together, squirming in his agony. "Stop! T-Take it off!  _Take it off! Please! It hurts! Aaah! Hahn! P-Please! It h-h-h-urts!"_

"Well, you know, you hurt  _me_ ," Malcolm said softly as he rested his head on Mikey's quaking knee, moist with perspiration. "How could you?" he hissed. "You're so selfish. I thought you were good. I thought you'd be there for me. Give me the love that I give to you," Malcolm's voice cracked. He braced his mouth on Mikey's knee. The pale eyes watched Mikey panting through his pain.

"You're a greedy pig. I  _told_  you. I told you that if you're bad, I will have to punish you. And I tried, Mikey. I really did. I tried to make you happy. But . . . You take and take and only want sex. Well, now I can't even give you that. Because," his throat caught, "you hurt me so cruelly. But I have an idea."

He smiled and his eyes remained cold and alien. "Let's hope this will satisfy you."

He raised one section of the nunchaku up and in his writhing pain, Mikey barely registered Malcolm shifting, positioning himself to do something. But when the end of the weapon knocked up against his entrance, Mikey's agony became eclipsed by a terror like nothing else he'd experienced. His heart seized in his chest. His eyes grew to saucers, wild with horror. Complete and overwhelming.

Not his babies. Oh god, he wouldn't. He could take anything else but that.  _Anything_.

 _"NO!"_  Mikey shrieked, unable to articulate anything else,  _"NO! NO!"_

His protests were dissolved into grunts and groans of pain as Malcolm shoved and pushed, driving the rough, rigid handle of the weapon deep, deeper into his body. Once Mikey's body was penetrated as far as Malcolm could get it, he pulled it out slow and then drove it back inside.

Mikey screamed as Malcolm repeated the actions. Then, he left it inserted inside him; one end hung, dangling by the short chain, shaking and making a small noise from the trembling of Michelangelo's body. A thin trickle of blood coated the links, traveling down to drip in tiny, delicate spatters on the mattress below.

He hung for a moment on Mikey's quivering, suspended legs. He turned his head a planted a gentle kiss against his knee, now soaked with sweat. He glanced down at Mikey's face, turned to the side, frozen in a silent scream of anguish. Only the sound of his broken panting, wheezing softly, could be heard above the tiny sound of the nunchucks' chain. Malcolm felt a sense of mollified satisfaction.

"I hope that will satisfy you for a little while."

Malcolm sighed. Then he turned to leave. Hobbling to the stairs, he paused, bracing one hand on the wall, the other on the railing. He glanced once more at Mikey.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" he shouted suddenly, sounding like a petulant child. He began to mutter and complain with each struggling step up, clutching at his bleeding groin, gently cradling it, knowing it would be a long time before he'd be able to enjoy himself with Mikey. But he wouldn't let something like this damper things. No. He had everything he always wanted. He just had to get Mikey to understand how much he loved him. He would get this patched up and be good as new. Lord knows, he'd been through much worse as a child.

At the double doors he stopped once more, sniffling and wiping his eyes with the heels of both hands.

His voice only wavered a little as he said, "Once I get rid of that awful tail, we'll start over. Okay? We can just start over. Do it right this time." He gave a shaky laugh. "Because I can forgive you, Mikey. That's how much I love you." He clapped and laughed out loud then disappeared, slamming the doors closed behind him.

Mikey lay, lost in his agony. Lost in his mind. Lost to the world.

Shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, that was really one of the heaviest chapters I think I've ever written. What do you think? Fingers too numb to type?
> 
> Big thanks goes to Novus Ordo Seclorum for the song suggestion of Prison Sex, it fits Malcom perfectly. And again, to TheIncredibleDancingBetty for her wonderful input on just what happens when you wrap a rubber band around delicate flesh...just wait. And also for her helping me out with some of the more gruesome aspects of this situation between Malcolm and Mikey, having someone to bounce ideas off while remaining not only helpful, but non-judgmental and imaginative and well-informed is a really wonderful thing! So, thank you again for everything, IDB!


	15. Give and Take

By minutes and crawling seconds weaving tendrils across his skin, the time passed and exhaustion weighed him down but guilt drove him forward. Leonardo staggered to the prearranged and agreed upon locale for their regrouping. After inadvertently meeting Karai and the subsequent fight that he'd gotten into with Raphael, interrupted by a livid Donatello, they had split up once again.

The separation was just what he needed from Raphael. His anger was catching and being away from him helped cool his own raging inferior of frustrated rage down to a dull, seething anger. Raphael was muttering under his breath, apparently not as composed as Leonardo had managed to get himself, and Donatello stood in frozen, eerie silence. His burning eyes were boring holes into Leo's body and Leonardo found he could not meet the intensity of his brother's stare for long. Too many accusations, too much disappointment, too much anger from the younger sibling that Leonardo had trusted over the years to turn to when strategy came into question.

Donatello had always been his second. His cool assessments of Leonardo's plans were something that he'd come to rely on and trust. Now, however, he felt that something between him and Don had been fractured. There was a silent judgment being weighed against him and he could feel it as clearly as the heaviness in his limbs. He did not detect such harsh, if not silent, criticism directed at Raphael, though that did not surprise him in the least.

Raphael was known and accepted to be the impulsive one of their family. He could get away with acting rashly or basing his actions on emotionally charged reactions. Leonardo was ever expected to remain aloof, neutral, stoic. He was apparently not allowed to possess feelings outside of the safety and care of his own small family.

He swallowed back the bitterness at the thought. Whether it was fair or not, it was there. It always was, would always remain. But none of that mattered now.

The only thing that mattered was locating their missing sibling and rescuing him from whatever fate had inflicted upon the youngest. He brushed away the discomfort of Donatello's stare and refocused on why they were meeting. The snow was nearing their knee pads and they took shelter beneath an overhang from the back of a storage and receiving door to a building situated at the edge of a large lumberyard.

Raphael and he exchanged red-rimmed glances. He didn't have to ask to know. They had found nothing. Nothing.

"This is fucked up," Raphael growled to the wall. His frustration was a roiling ball of tension, nearly tangible.

"It's the weather. The snow has covered any and all signs of where he might have gone or whether or not he was taken."

Raphael rounded on Donatello. "What do ya mean, whether or not he was taken? You think Mikey just sauntered off somewhere, to what? Have a little vacation?"

Leonardo watched Donatello's face darken.

"I am not discarding any possibility. Since we have absolutely  _nothing_  to go on, it would be wise to consider every avenue."

Raphael's fists were gathered in the front of Donatello's long coat before Leo could intervene.

"You _fuck_ ," he spat in Don's face. He slammed him back before letting him go as Leonardo got close enough to wedge himself between them. Raphael snarled at him. "Back off, Fearless."

Leonardo put both hands up in surrender. Though he was barely keeping a lid on his own frustration and anger, he did not feel that fighting with either of his brothers would do any good for the situation.

"Let's try to stay calm, here, alright?"

Raphael glared at him and shook his head. He spat into the snow. "Easy for you ta say."

Leonardo let the barb slide.

Donatello brushed down the front of his coat. "What now?" he asked Leo.

The question hung with such heavy expectation, he felt his knees shake with the burden of it being placed upon him.

Raphael raised his head, watching him carefully for his response.

"Why don't you two head home. Get a few hours of rest. I'll . . . keep looking."

It wasn't just his father's command that he was unwelcome back at the lair without his youngest brother in tow that kept him plodding on. He couldn't rest until his brother was in his embrace once more. Hopefully, unharmed and safe.

Though the nagging fear in the pit of his stomach told him that he'd be lucky to find his beloved baby brother alive. His mind sharply veered away from that festering dread. But it remained to rot within him like a slowly spreading tumor made of fear and guilt and despair.

"Ain't that selfless of you," Raphael said, voice dripping in sarcasm. He tilted his head in an exaggerated way as if listening to something no one else could hear.

Leonardo knew what was coming before the words even reached his lips.

"But somethin' tells me that you ain't gonna be searchin' for our little brother. So, yeah, I think I'll keep lookin' myself."

Though he had anticipated such a remark, his breath hitched in stunned hurt. Leonardo could not help but bristle at the insinuation. After all, it was Raphael sneaking around behind everyone's back to spend nights with her. But due to his nature, no one seemed to think that such a crime as Leonardo simply having feelings for the kunoichi. Leonardo had but stolen a kiss from her, nothing more. He could have had more. So much more.

His dedication to his family and his obligations had kept him restrained from indulging in what should have been his by right. Something that when offered, Raphael took with both hands, greedy and without any thought. Acting, as usual, rash and impulsive, ignorant to any possible fallout that may occur from his actions. Something that Leonardo secretly, and fiercely, envied in his younger brother. More than he could ever articulate.

He knew that Raphael was angry with him about Karai, but to suggest that he cared less for Michelangelo's safety than the rest of them, that he would indulge in something as shallow and selfish as stoking the embers of what little feeling he had left for the woman instead of searching for Mikey, was a low blow. It hurt. Deeply.

He had only ever given his concentration, his dedication, his life to his family, sacrificing all for them, always. Willingly.

To think that Raphael thought so little of his loyalty and love crushed him. He tried to tell himself that Raphael was simply speaking out of anger, as usual. To brush aside the comment along with the insinuation. To take it with a grain of salt. But the words gutted him, no doubt leaving a scar that would never heal.

Of all the things that Raphael had lashed out with over the years, Leonardo had found his way to forgiveness. Time and again, he did his best to understand his brother's rancor and aggravation with him. And in time, he'd always patched things up with Raphael.

He wanted his family intact. They were all they had. The relationships were precious to him. The most precious thing in the world. The distance between him and his younger brother pained him.

But this. He would never get past this remark.

Whether it was the gnawing terror of not finding his baby brother, or the icy fright of finding him slaughtered, the exhaustion and shame or just the suppressed fury, Leonardo snapped. Composure gone, he crossed the distance between them in a blur, gripping Raphael by the scarf and pulling his face close. He gave him a sharp shake.

Raphael ground his teeth and eyed him with a look of defiance and challenge. Amber eyes flashed.

"You wanna say something to me?" Leonardo ground out. "Then come out and say it!"

" _Fuck_  you," Raph spat.

Leonardo shoved him back. If he didn't he would hurt him, he could feel it in the coiled trembling of his arms and the way his fingers twitched in the need to grasp his swords, he had to distance himself from his brother. Now.

Raphael's legs scrambled through the snow before he caught his backward trajectory and lurched forward to throw a punch aimed at Leonardo's face. The bo staff came down with a sharp crack, hitting his arm before his fist could meet Leo's chin. Raphael screamed a curse.

"Enough!" Donatello shouted. "This fighting isn't getting us anywhere!"

Raphael lumbered back, holding his arm and grimacing in pain. He shot Don a hurt look that was quickly replaced with a dark look full of hatred. He turned the look on Leonardo.

"I ain't going nowhere but lookin' for Mikey. He's gotta be out there somewhere. I ain't gonna rest 'til I bring him home." He snapped his infuriated face to Donatello. His upper lip curled back into a snarl. "And you hit me with that thing one more time and I swear to god I'm gonna shove it up your ass."

Donatello only stared at him coolly. Unimpressed. Raphael may have intimidated him when he was just a scrawny youth, but age had sharpened his skill and toned his body into a hard, wiry mass. He was just as quick as Michelangelo when he wanted to be for all his length in limbs. And he was just as skilled with handling his beloved bo as any of his brothers. Outmatched only by Leonardo with his katana, but not by much. Raphael's brute strength could easily take him down, but he'd have to get close enough to lay a hand on him first. Something Donatello doubted he could do at this point in their training.

Raphael spun on his heel, muttering more curses as he stormed off into the swirling snow. Donatello cast a sidelong glance at Leonardo who watched Raphael go with an expression morphing from murderous fury to regret to heavy sadness. Finally, Leonardo turned his clouded gaze to meet Donatello's.

"So much for regrouping and getting our heads on straight," Donatello said and he saw Leonardo's snow crusted shoulders visibly slump beneath the black coat he wore.

"Don," Leonardo said and his voice was filled with trepidation as though he were afraid to voice what he was about to say, but he plowed on, "What are our chances of finding him . . . alive?"

Donatello stiffened. For a brief second, he could not meet Leonardo's eyes. But with cold in his veins he forced himself to.

Though his voice was sharp, his eyes were soft with despair. It was the first time in days that Donatello's expression held something other than hardly suppressed contempt and disappointment towards him.

"At this point?" Don let the question hang. Implying everything, saying nothing.

Donatello turned away and started in the opposite direction Raphael took; long legs sloughing through the drifts of biting snow. The hitched breath his brother took, followed by the soft grinding sound of his barely restrained sob nearly stopped him in his tracks. But he clenched his jaw and continued on in his fruitless search for a brother he knew with a certainty, between the possible intentions of an enemy that took him and the weather if he had wandered off on his own, could not still be living.

Statistically speaking, there was just no way he lived at this point. He had concluded this the previous day, but had withheld his deduction from his brothers, deciding to tell them only if directly asked. He hoped at best to bring a body home to bury.

# # #

Karai spent a night of fitful tossing and turning to finally give up any further attempts at falling back to sleep. She wrapped the silken robe about her shoulders and set the tea pot on the stove. A glance at the clock told her it was four in the morning. Between the dozing and wakeful spurts, she had managed only a few hours of actual slumber.

When she had slept, she was plagued with nightmarish visions full of obscure violent images that slipped comprehension in her waking. She was left feeling unsettled and jumpy. In the blue light of the early morning, she picked up her phone and spun it in a lazy circle on top of her kitchen table.

Her mind worked over the last few days, hardly believing that it had only been a few days when all her plans had come crashing down around her and her world was tipped to one side, spilling the contents into a mangled disarray that she may never make right again. She braced her forehead into one palm.

She thought of the night of Michelangelo's disappearance. The last night she'd spent in Raphael's embrace; strong and possessive. She would be lying to herself if she said she wouldn't miss it. Being with him.

In truth, he was merely a substitute for what she had truly been after. Her patience simply wasn't up to the task of waiting out Leonardo's rigid sense of honor. And Raphael's eagerness to accept her affection stole her breath away. His loneliness was matched only by his strength, it seemed. She relished his ardent attention. His rough expression of desire – of love.

She knew he was falling for her, as each meeting became laced with tender moments; slowly he bared his soul to her with an obvious fragile hope of her acceptance of him. The truth was, she simply didn't care. His feelings weren't something she thought too much on. It wasn't her fault that he couldn't tell the difference between lust and love. It wasn't her fault that he was so inexperienced and naïve so that his first experiences with a woman would cause him to fall the way he had. His heartbreak was of no concern to her.

Yes. She understood that she had hurt him terribly when he proclaimed to Leonardo that she had chosen him over his brother and had cruelly denied any feelings for him. But his suffering had no effect on her. Why should it?

The problem was that it was only too late when she realized that it wasn't only Leonardo's rejection of her physical advances that drove her to only want to possess him more. She had started this as a game. Something to win. He was the prize. The ultimate victory. To have him would be a luscious thing. Taboo and thrilling. But his stiff personality and reluctance to succumb to her seduction had started to bore her. That was when she had turned to his younger brother as an experiment.

Oh, how easily won Raphael was. And how quickly her mind had shifted back to wanting his brother. The one that continued to allude her. Leonardo.

As infuriating as he was, he remained a steady consistency in a life that was anything but. He was solid and unrelenting in his devotion to the things he chose to be loyal to. And over time, more and more, Karai wished to be counted among those things. To be loved by such a force would be to live a life graced with joy and contentment. Two things that were sorely absent in her miserable excuse for an existence.

She had to win him to her affections. She refused to give up on this. On him. She had never wanted anything more in her young life. Her hand tipped the phone to its side and she gently tapped it against the table. Kenso's face, his square jaw, his lovely almond eyes, rose up in her mind.

"Where are you, Kenso?" she murmured and the tea pot whistled startling her.

She stood up and prepared the cup. Her mind wandered back to her conversation with the chemist, Adeline. The woman had explained that Malcolm had a cousin struggling with drug abuse and he was looking for some answers regarding certain club drugs. Their effects and dosing to avoid ending up in the hospital.

Karai worked over the conversation carefully. Something struck her. Malcolm had mentioned in particular, the build of his cousin, his weight and height. That seemed to stick out in her mind, screaming for attention. And a dread like a swirl of ice coiled in her stomach. Adeline had told her the weight and height that Malcolm had provided her with.

Karai dashed to her bag in the living room. The tea cup bounced and clattered as it spilled its contents across the table in a spreading pool of light green.

She dug through her bag and pulled out the small notebook that she used to take notes. She flipped to her conversation with Adeline and murmured the specifications of his supposed cousin's body weight and mass. Karai closed her eyes and imagined the build. He said approximately five foot, two inches, one hundred and ninety pounds give or take. That would make for either a small mutant turtle considering his shell and muscle mass or a very heavy cousin.

She tried to imagine what the youngest of the Hamato clan had looked like the very few times she had glimpsed him. It did no good. She ground her teeth in frustration, only able to imagine Raphael's weight on her, crushing her; his impossible bulk, the broad chest and shoulders, thick arms and thighs. The straining length between his legs, pressed upon her quivering inner thigh, a shiver went through her. She shook her head, exasperated at her own insatiable appetite. She refocused.

Michelangelo would be much smaller. Her instinct raged that she finally knew exactly who had Michelangelo.

She stood up and hesitated. But why? If Malcolm had achieved the impossible of capturing one of the brothers, why not parade his achievement to the clan?

Everyone was well aware of her father's obsession. The rewards of such a feat would be immense. The respect and honor that would befall the victor would be limitless. She chewed her lip in thoughtful concentration.

What motivated the strange man? His pale eyes came to her, his sniveling, his reluctance to partake in any events outside of their actual shadowy business and transactions. He never engaged with any of the men or the women for that matter. Karai's eyes darted around her living room as her mind raced. A strange sense of missing something crucial drifted through her mind.

There was something about the man that unnerved her. Made her feel uncomfortable to be too close to him. He was like a weasel in the midst of wolves. He certainly did not belong. And Karai had taken for granted that her father had assigned him among other less than adequate soldiers to her to teach her humility and to prove his lack of trust in her own abilities to lead a powerful force effectively. At the time, she had brushed off his appointment to her regiment of men as just yet another insult from her father. She never considered that there was something inherently  _dangerous_  about the pathetic creep.

She reassessed her vision of the man. Malcolm was not just weak, not just dull-witted. She was wrong to think that. There was a glimmer of cunning behind those unsettling eyes. A hint of something manic shimmered in those shallow pools whenever the turtles were brought up.

And now lately, there was something else there, when she spoke to him the other day. Didn't she note it there in his odd eyes? Something hidden. As if he held a secret he refused to share. But the question was: what was he hiding? Karai felt as though she had finally guessed.

Karai pressed her mouth into a tight line. Enough waiting.

Karai ran to her room and quickly got dressed. She put on layers to shield herself from the ongoing blizzard outside. Careful to strap a blade to her thigh as well as slide one into the hidden sheath inside her leather boots. She pulled her dark locks into a pony tail and wound it into a sloppy bun at the back of her head. Then throwing on her knee-length black coat, she tucked the cell phone into one deep pocket, donned leather gloves, and dashed out of her apartment, slamming the door behind her.

# # #

The night passed with consciousness coming and going. Each time he drifted back to reality he was met with bright pain and fits of sobbing. The crying only made his body tense and clench around the embedded segment of his beloved weapon, causing indescribable pain. Each time he struggled to get some composure, he only managed to blubber and choke. Then he'd finally slip back into the abysmal darkness from utter exhaustion, tear tracks stained down his cheeks. The brief moments of nonexistence was a relief. But the terrible discomfort continued to wake him.

Michelangelo came back to the world through the cramping, slivering pain streaking through him. He was penetrated and pinned in place, unable to move without shooting fiery misery through his body.

His mind blurred with a haze of not understanding. Why had this happened to him? Why? Had he wronged some powerful god in some way? Had his irreverence to the teachings of his master sealed his fate?

His eyes filled and then spilled over with tears that would not cease, his body remained in the odd angle, twitching with spasms of rippling agony. He could no longer feel his tail at all. But that was a blessing as the pain the rubber band wound around his broken and battered appendage caused was almost enough to drive him insane. The snot choked him along with the bite of the metal collar around his throat.

The thought that he deserved this struck him and he gave a hoarse sob from between gritted teeth. He should have known better than to fight back against Malcolm. He should have never tried to escape.

His brothers had not found him yet and now, he hoped they would never. He could not face them. Not after this. Most of all, he wanted to die. But cruelly, his heart continued to beat. His lungs continued to drag in ragged breath after breath. They froze as the doors opened and the steps creaked with the familiar patter of Malcolm's footsteps. He limped just into view. The chains rattled and the hanging segment of the nunchucks bounced from his violent trembling at the sight of the man.

"Good morning," he said and sipped at a mug filled with steaming liquid. He pulled back slightly and hissed, "Oo, hot. Darn it."

Malcolm glanced at him. Then twisted and gave Kenso a look before dropping his gaze to the floor. "That's starting to stink." His eyes flicked to Michelangelo where he lay shaking in terror and agony. "Almost as much as you."

He sighed. "After all that trouble I took to get you cleaned up, you just pissed all over yourself, I see."

 _"P-Please . . ."_   Mikey choked out in a whisper.

Malcolm cocked a brow. Then he draped one arm over Mikey's left knee. His body convulsed and seized. Malcolm gave a low whistle. He glanced over his shoulder to the nunchucks segment, dangling and quivering.

"Did I leave that inside you?" Malcolm asked as he turned his face back to Mikey. " _Tch_ , that must've been very uncomfortable." His sly smile spread just as he covered it by taking another sip of the steaming tea. "Hopefully, you've gotten it all out of your system, now."

 _"Please!"_  Mikey whispered again, voice strained. "I-I'm . . . s-sorry.  _I'm sorry_!"

His words dissolved into blubbering and Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"What a drama queen you are." He sipped at his tea and gave Mikey's knee a pat. "I'll tell you what. Today we're gonna start over. So, why don't you give me one of those beautiful smiles and I'll get that out?"

Mikey blinked the tears from his eyes. "Wh-What?" he barely managed to ask.

"Smile for me. Tell me good morning."

His bottom lip quivered, as he twisted and contorted his expression, trying to remember how exactly to smile. He ended up grimacing and bursting into sobs again.

Malcolm sighed. He reached between Mikey's legs and with the tip of his finger, he pushed the end of the weapon towards his body. The wood had stuck to the flesh inside of his rectum. The tearing sensation had Mikey squeal and squeak as he writhed. Malcolm paused. He hefted the hanging segment of the weapon and glanced at Mikey.

"Where's that adorable smile, Mikey?" he asked in warning.

Blinking, Mikey tried again. His mind sought out anything that he could draw on to make the faux expression happen. His mind was a fog of pain and despair. But he was desperate to have his body whole again.

He thought of his brothers, but that only made more tears spill free.

He thought of his skateboard and the time he managed to do an impressive flip without falling for the first time. He thought of his accomplishment and how proud he was of his achievement. Even Master Splinter had been impressed with his performance.

He felt the remembered glow. He sensed the love and admiration flowing from his father and brothers. Donatello had watched without being distracted, brows raised in marveling at his stunt, Leo had praised him with exuberant pride, his warm voice filling Michelangelo with joy and even Raphael clapped him on the shoulder, laughing with his wonder, but only had words of encouragement and awe to hand out.

And this time, somehow, he felt his tremulous lips twitching upwards. He stared at Malcolm through watering eyes as he smiled his hardest, happiest, widest grin he could manage; the smile slicing through his soul like a razor blade.

"G-Good . . . m-morning," he said, voice hitching on every syllable.

"There we go!" Malcolm said as he brightened and with a powerful yank, wrenched the weapon free from Mikey's body in one swift movement.

The wood tore the flesh as it was rent free. A gush of blood followed.

Michelangelo's body contracted and jerked. His smile dropped as his face screwed up in shuddering agony. He had no breath to scream. He could only hiss and pant like an animal in the throes of brittle suffering.

"Well, now. We're off to a wonderful new start."

He crossed the room, tossing the bloodied nunchucks to one corner of the room with Michelangelo's other belongings. He set his tea cup down. Fingering the plastic containers of drugs lined up on the tabletop, he considered their contents and then turned around with the scissors in hand.

"From what I've read about docking dogs' tails on the internet, I believe these should work just fine. But if not," he cast around, then shrugged, muttering, "I have hedge clippers around here somewhere. Maybe up in the house." He continued talking as he stepped back with a limping gait towards Mikey, "Now that you've had that band wrapped around your tail overnight, it should be nice and numb. So, I won't give you anything at the moment. You really shouldn't feel a thing."

Mikey's eyes went wide. He ran a parched tongue over cracked lips. "W-Wait, M-Mal . . ." he started, doing his best to sound casual, but it was hard to do when he was shuddering in terror and being partially strangled by the collar around his raw throat. "You d-don't have to do this. I s-swear. I-I . . . I'll be good for now on. I-I p-promise."

Malcolm stopped and raised his brows. "Oh, I know." He glanced at the scissors and gave Mikey a warm, reassuring smile that was anything but. "You're not in  _trouble_. I told you last night. I forgive you. That's how deep my love goes for you. Mikey," he shook his head and chuckled. "That tail is in the way. You understand?" he asked as if speaking to a small child. "It gets between us. As lovers. And I _know_ ," he bobbed his head from side to side, "that it's gonna be a while before we can really get back to being lovers, but it actually works out perfectly, because you'll be all healed up and so will I! We'll heal together!"

Mikey's throat worked. "But, M-Mal," his voice choked on the name of his tormentor, his teeth chattered as he stuttered out, "I-I don't want to l-lose m-my tail. It-It's part of m-me."

Malcolm's shoulders sank. His eyes went flat. "There is give and take in all relationships, Dream Lover. This is something you'll just have to give up. Do it for me, won't you?"

With that Malcolm climbed up on the mattress. His body weight made it shift and Mikey's shuddering increased. The rattle of the chains sounded like gun fire in the room. He stood between Mikey's legs, looking down at him. Smiling.

"P-Please, don't," Mikey begged. "I'll d-do whatever you w-want. P-Please. Please!" His pleas dissolved back to blubbering and rambling incoherently as he felt Malcolm's fingers stroking his inner thigh in an attempt to soothe his distress.

"Shhh," Malcolm said and brought the blades of the scissors down.

# # #

Karai trudged through the snow, maneuvering through waist deep mounds at times. The signal from her cell phone led her through the cemetery towards the very back lot until it started to fade and she doubled back.

Roaming through the blizzard in the frigid air, she felt her impatience rising along with her dread. There was no doubt. Kenso's signal was coming from somewhere in the vicinity. She just had to narrow it down . . . She stopped at the deep depression in the snow and realized with a start that it was an open grave.

She waved the device over the open maw, blanketed in snow that was glittering in the blue light of morning. Her tracking program on her cell phone blinked brightly.

"No." The word was a breath across her lips. A puff of cloud that crystalized and melted in the span of a heartbeat.

Her face snapped up, her eyes, lashes coated in delicate snowflakes, focused on the hill through the black lace of bare branches, skeletal and foreboding. Above loomed an old Victorian house.

Her instinct flared brightly in the pit of her stomach. She knew of this place. Just as she was certain that she'd find Malcolm squatting within. She could only hope that Michelangelo was being held prisoner within and in one piece. And that it was only Kenso's phone that lay buried beneath the snow within the open grave at her feet, nothing more.

She would get the information she needed from the sorry excuse for a man. If she had to, she would beat the information from Malcolm's sniveling, wretched body. Setting her jaw, she marched through the snow, feeling tendrils of her hair catching on the sharp pin-like branches above and around her as she shouldered her way towards the house.

She was half-way there when an agonized shriek froze her in her tracks. The sound of it chilled her to the bone. It was more animal than human.

But Karai had been privy to more than a few interrogations at the hands of her father. She knew the gut-wrenching sound of someone suffering through relentless agony. Had nightmares about it. Her face jerked towards the source of the cry of anguish.

Immediately, Karai collapsed down into the heavy snow drift as someone emerged from a partially buried shelter in the back of the property line. She peered over the curved mound of snow as the familiar figure of a soldier hurried in a strange loping gait towards the house. She recognized him with a twist in her stomach.

Then that scream. It could only mean one thing. The boy was within.

And he'd been hurt. Unimaginably so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Big thank you to all my readers. Your support means the world to me. Your friendship is something I cherish. You continue to amaze and humble me with your kind words and encouragement. You push me to write better. You make me believe I can continue to deliver quality stories that you so very much deserve to read. 
> 
> For that and so much more . . . so much more, I thank you!


	16. Redemption's Ruin

As soon as the man was out of sight, Karai leapt to her feet and dashed to the source of the scream she had heard moments ago. The snow sucked at her boots as she ran. She was met with a set of wooden doors, unlocked. She pulled one open and carefully slid it shut.

As she turned to the descending stair case, her senses were struck with a wall of stench. A mix of distinctly cloying, coppery blood, sour urine, dank mildew, sweat and rank decay assaulted her. Eyes watering, she pulled a kerchief from within her coat pocket and pressed it against her mouth and nose as she gave a dry heave.

She had been in the Foot cell block before where violent discipline was handed out in various creative ways – prisoners sometimes went without sleep do to strobe lighting, were electrocuted at timed intervals over a period of hours or days based on why they were in there to begin with, and whipped, among other more traditional methods of torture. The cell block had a unique scent that hung in the air like a malaise. The wretched aroma of desperation, pain and despair. This room, this dungeon, had the same impression upon her, only much, much stronger.

Swiftly, her feet ghosted down the steps, hardly making a sound, slowing and eventually falling still as she reached the bottom and her eyes took in the scene. Her mind froze and the word that flashed as a warning took up all thought,  _Monster_.

Malcolm, the man she had branded a weasel and a coward in her mind, was neither. He was something so much simpler. So much more evil. He was a monster.

At first, she could not make out what was before her. The small battered body, contorted in an impossible position, the angle of legs, the feet hanging in the air, the pool of coagulating blood like a black cartoonish pit just to the side of the mattress. His flesh was discolored, an ashy green, mottled with black and yellow bruises, ugly and painful looking, large and small and overlapping. The toes were black at the tips, suffering from the effects of frostbite.

She wouldn't have guessed that the mangled form she saw before her belonged to anything living, except for the violent trembling of both feet at the ankles. Trembling so hard, they appeared to vibrate in the dim light.

She shook herself and strode forward, carefully sidestepping the pool of sticky black blood. The surface was frosted in shards of lighter red. The toe of her boot struck a pair of bloody scissors, knocking them to the wall, startling her. She flinched and froze before continuing on her way to the captive; her prize to win Leonardo back to her.

"Michelangelo?" she whispered and noted how his body flinched and jerked with her voice.

He  _was_  alive. Relief and something close to giddy glee flowed through her, renewing her courage and her focus. She removed the kerchief from her face and grimaced, breathing shallowly to deal with the odor. As she hurried closer, she could see something hanging from between the mutant's legs, bleeding like a faucet negligently left on to trickle. The blood steamed in the frigid air.

Karai gasped and swallowed. She thought it was his sex, partially sliced through and hanging from between his legs. Her eyes widened, though, as she crouched between his legs to have a closer look and found it to be his tail.

Her memory raced to her intimate time with Raphael and how he'd reacted when she had discovered the hidden, and highly sensitive part of his body. It was a segment of his body that when stroked and played with reduced him to a state of barely-controlled, heated carnal need. It was the only time he gave her the guttural purring sound from deep within his chest that thrilled her to no end and spurred her own lust and desire to ever towering heights.

Her heart clenched to see Michelangelo's tail, flayed bare to reveal the raw muscle and veins as well as being partially severed. A flap of the skin hung by a thin membrane from the very tip. Near the thicker base, she made out something wrapped tightly around it. She realized that whatever that was - it looked like a rubber band - it had sliced through the skin all the way around, effectively making the skin covering his sensitive tail like a glove that with a bit of rough handling simply slid free. Flaying it bare.

"The pain . . ." she croaked in sympathy.

Flaying body parts was used as a torture device only when excessive force was needed. The procedure was agonizing when done on something like a finger or thumb. The thought of what it felt like on something as sensitive as an erogenous zone made Karai pale and tremble.

She quickly took the hanging appendage in her hand with the kerchief. At her touch, Michelangelo let out a grinding squeal. She winced in empathy. But then stiffened and looked over her shoulder. She had to act fast.

As gently as possible, she hefted the spurting appendage and quickly wrapped the material around it, trying to stop some of the blood flow. But the ragged cut was through muscle and bone, half-way through to the center where the muscle was thickest. She wondered if there would be anyway to sew it back to his body or if it would need to be removed completely. The raw flesh was swollen and discolored. The white material of her kerchief blossomed dark red immediately. There was nothing more she could do for it.

She rose and her hands trailed along the metal bar to the leather straps, she quickly unbelted one and then began on the other. Her jaw clenched as she noted the deep lacerations the straps had made. No doubt he'd struggled and fought to free himself.

From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone staring at her from the darkened corner of the room. Heart leaping into her throat, she released the now loosened belt and twisted to face the stranger in the shadows. She cursed her stupidity for not checking the room for other people, assuming that Malcolm worked alone in this sick pursuit. Making such assumptions had killed better ninja than her.

But instead of a foe meeting her with a weapon or fists, she was met with the severed head of her dear Kenso.

Shock struck her like a blinding collision. Karai brought her hand to her mouth and heaved. She stumbled forward, off the mattress, towards his decomposing flesh, all the while shaking her head in denial.

"It can't be," she whispered thickly from behind her fingers.

Her mind refused to see what was before her. She bit into the flesh of her hand to keep from screaming, but felt it rising from within her throat, threatening to doom her and Michelangelo. A tremor shook her. Then another, but she held the scream inside of herself. It felt as though a searing blast had erupted within her heaving chest. But she controlled herself, barely. And still, she could not turn away from the ghastly sight of her loyal and courageous man. Her second. At one time, her generous lover. One of the very few Karai could count as loyal to her exclusively within the Foot Clan.

She reached out a shaking hand to stroke her fingertips against the pale flesh of his cheek, moving at the last moment to press his eyelids closed. Kenso was dead. Not only that, he'd been murdered and his body had been defaced and disgraced in the most hideous manner. How was it possible? Someone like Malcolm could not have done this. Not on his own.

Kenso prided himself on keeping his skills sharp and his strength was only matched by his quickness. And yet here he met his terrible fate. And it was on her order that he met such a grisly one. The sudden knot of guilt nearly surpassed the rolling nausea. A soft whine from behind her snapped her out of her daze and once again she spun.

 _Get it together Karai. There is no time for regrets and self-indulgent pity_ , she thought as she ground her teeth together. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She squared her shoulders and marched back to Michelangelo. Her eyes scanned the way he was restrained. Then darted around to see if she could locate a set of keys. There were none in sight. She would have to pick the locks. She knelt next to his shoulders.

"I'm getting you out of here, Michelangelo. Can you hear me?"

His eyes were pinched shut and he was panting rapidly through gritted teeth, obviously in horrendous pain. He was in no condition to speak. She only hoped that he'd be able to maintain consciousness once freed. Though his body was obviously neglected and mal-nourished, battered and shrunk down to the size of a child, they'd make a quicker escape if she didn't have to carry him.

Fishing out her small tool kit from her purse, she set to picking the lock keeping his fists raised above his head and the bar raised between his elevated legs. Her fingers shook despite her grip on her composure. The pin wobbled and dropped to the mattress below. She swore under her breath as her hand dug around the filth and puddled sweat until her fingers dug beneath his shell where it had rolled. Her fingers curled around it just as light flooded over them.

Karai's eyes snapped to Mikey's face. His eyes were open. The pale blue of his irises stood out from the red broken capillaries, burst from his scream earlier. He stared up at her with glassy desperation. Karai could only pat his cheek gently before she disappeared into the shadows of beneath the creaking stairs.

She could see through the panels that it was Malcolm returning. Her eyes darted to Kenso's head. It was impossible, but the man seemed to be alone. She should not underestimate what he was capable of doing. Her eyes returned to him coming down the steps above her. The pointed tips of a pair of hedge clippers hung from one hand and Karai's eyes darted back to where Michelangelo still lay. With a twist of horror in her gut, she piece together what Malcolm was planning on doing with those clippers. But the restrains on his legs had been unfastened and she realized with a start that Malcolm would soon see that someone had attended to his tail.

_I must not underestimate him. He's a monster. A monster._

Karai's fingers brushed something long and metal next to where she crouched. Her fingers grasped it and curled tightly around it, recognizing it immediately as one of the modified cattle prods used in the torture rooms at the compound. She picked it up and held it closely to her chest. Her entire body thrummed with anticipation and adrenaline.

"I'm so sorry that took so long, Mikey," the man said as he reached the bottom. "I thought I left them near the stairs. Now, where were-" his sentence cut off and Karai tensed as she saw his body language shift as he no doubt spied the change in his captive's state. Her heart was a thundering roar in her ears. Her breath frozen in her chest.

It was now or never.

From the shadows, Karai sprang. She launched herself at Malcolm, just as he started to twist in her direction, tackling him to the floor and rolling. The clippers spun from his hand across the floor through the puddle of gore. Immediately, Karai righted herself as she came out of the roll, having flipped Malcolm with her knee and leg as they tumbled. He careened into the stone wall, upside down with a loud grunt. He slid down and flopped onto his stomach. He scrambled to a seated position.

Karai raced to him. He lifted one arm to protect his face, and squealed in fright.

With a snarl, Karai brought her foot forward in a round house kick, slamming his head to one side. It bounced off the stone and Malcolm slumped to the floor in a heap. She strode up to him and grabbed his tattered uniform, speckled with Michelangelo's blood. She shook him to see if he was conscious. He moaned. She jabbed the end of the cattle prod to the side of his neck and activated it with a feral grin.

"For Kenso!" she screamed.

His body jerked and jumped. Arms flailed and fingers twitched. Legs bucked and jittered. The flesh turned black where the tip met his throat. The smell of burnt skin filled her nostrils. She pulled it away. Then she punched him twice in the face while the end of it was gripped in her fist before dropping him to the floor.

Panting, she backed up. She dropped the weapon and shook out her hand, knowing she had a broken finger or two. But it was worth it. With her left hand trembling, she fumbled in her pocket for the cell phone. She finally managed to pull it out. She pressed the speed dial to the number Donatello had given her with her thumb. As it rang, she turned back to Mikey.

Breathless, she said, "It's over."

Michelangelo's eyes closed slowly. He lay there shaking as Karai set to her task of picking the locks once more, cell phone perched under her chin.

# # #

The young man writhed. His brow and nose piercings gleamed against pale flesh, tears and snot poured down his face as the sai twisted deeper into his shoulder, further pinning the gang member to the wall behind him. Raphael's face was a contorted mask of seething fury an inch away from the sniveling excuse for a man.

"I ain't gonna ask you again," he growled from between clenched teeth and the man whimpered something incoherent. "What was that?"

"I-I s-said, I dunno nothin' a-about 'cher brotha! I-I was with my crew th-that night! Ask any of them!"

Raphael's amber eyes flashed as he narrowed them to slits. A grim smile spread over his face. One incisor gleamed, making him appear all the more feral. Savage and lethal. Like being pinned by a tiger that is enjoying making the meal stretch out a bit before indulging in the kill.

The man's eyelids fluttered as more tears spilled free.

"Little late for that," Raph hoarsely whispered. Behind him, half buried in the snow were three other bodies. Each mangled form laid in a depression of snow painted in bright crimson blotches and sprays.

"P-Please!  _P-Please!"_  the man shrieked as the twin brother of the sai embedded in his shoulder rose up to meet his throat.

"Another waste of my time," Raph growled, dipping the point down to open the man's throat at the jugular. Just as he was ready to dismiss another gang member as having no information on Michelangelo and thus didn't need to continue to pollute the city with his miserable existence, his cell rang. With suddenly wide eyes, Raph jerked the embedded sai free and spun to retrieve the phone from his belt. Blood sprayed from the man's wound in a wide arc.

"Yeah?!" he barked into the cell phone.

Behind him, the man crumbled to the ground, blubbering and thanking god for being spared. Raphael said nothing else, but stood rigidly in the snow, listening. With a snap he shut the phone and raced off, barreling through the snow.

# # #

Karai took the cuffs and laid them to the side of his body. She twisted around and moved on her knees back to his legs, still awkwardly bent over the horizontal bar. Taking his calf into both hands, ignoring the pain from her broken fingers, and bracing his trembling thigh against her chest, she lifted his left leg up and over the bar, setting his foot on the mattress.

She felt his fingers digging into her thigh and she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was panting and tears were running down his swollen, bruised and hardly recognizable face.

"Almost there, Michelangelo. Almost. Your brothers are on their way."

She frowned at his sharp intake of breath at the mention of his brothers' imminent arrival. She watched his pale face as his expression sank. He pinched his eyes closed and then cast his gaze to one side as though afraid or worried. She brushed it away and told herself it was relief and his pain, nothing more. She edged herself over to unhook his right leg from the bar.

Her eyes traveled down between his legs. The tender flesh beneath his plastron was swollen and bruised terribly. She could clearly see dried blood covering every inch and the bandage his tail was wrapped in was now soaked through with blood. She swallowed though her throat felt tight and dry. What horrors had this young man been put through?

To ease the tension and awkwardness, to attempt to soothe him, Karai found herself rambling nonsense. Her voice sounded off and strange in the underground shelter that served as his own private hell. She ran her tongue over dry lips and started.

"It's good to see you-you're alive and well, er, uh," she stammered over her ill-chosen wording, "Uh, We've all been looking for you. Donatello, Raphael and Leonardo," she listed them as though speaking to an imbecile and felt foolish and suddenly ill-suited to the situation. But she blundered on, unable to hold her tongue in the midst of such horror, "I-I am sure you will be glad to be rid of this terrible place."

The look on his face had her stumbling on.

"You are very brave," she said as she eased his right foot down. He seemed as weak as a newborn. "What I mean to say, is, to face such peril at such a young age. Y-You are the youngest of your clan, is that right?"

He did not respond.

She continued, "To survive in the path of such danger. Your brothers and father will be so proud of you. You've proven yourself a-a true ninja."

He pinched his eyes closed and made an anguished expression.

Not understanding whether or not she was the source of his discomfort, she went on, stubbornly determined to try and offer him some level of comfort and cheer, "I-I am proud of you. I am sure this was not easy. You have been gone several days."

His breath hitched and Karai feared she was somehow making everything worse. She scrambled over to his head and took his face in her hands, meaning to lean him forward. He jumped at the contact and quailed. A small desperate sound ground out from the back of his throat.

"Easy, my friend," she murmured and brought her cheek to his. She felt his tremors and her heart contracted. "I will not harm you. I swear it. I only mean to pick the last lock restraining you. I just need you to lean forward, can you?"

He hesitated and then gave her a small nod. He leaned forward into her arms and pressed his tear-streaked face to her bosom. The soft curve of her breast beneath the silken shirt she wore met his cheek and he couldn't help but nuzzle closer as she worked at the lock behind his neck.

First one shaking arm, then the next tentatively wrapped around Karai's waist. His entire body trembled and shook as his embrace grew tighter. She felt his fingers digging into her back. There was a small pop and a creak, followed by a rattle and clang as the chain connecting his collar to the wall fell away and into the wall behind him. He moved a little as Karai slid the metal from around his raw, scraped throat. It fell to the mattress with a clunk. The inside rim of it caked in sweat and blood.

He was free. The last person he'd ever imagined had delivered him from hell. The daughter of his father's most hated enemy. Leonardo's secret love. Karai.

"It is done."

He knew he needed to go. He wanted to. He wanted to run as fast as he could away from this terrifying place, but his aching body wouldn't move. To move now would only serve to send more agony through his body and he didn't think he could take any more. Not after Malcolm had tried unsuccessfully to severe his tail from his body with a pair of kitchen shears.

Karai's soft form was a comforting bliss after so much pain. He wanted to bury himself in her soft curves, hide away in her kindness to him. So he clung to her. He clung to her like a lifeline. He clung to her like she was the only thing in the known universe.

Karai held her arms out awkwardly for a moment before returning the embrace. She rested her cheek on top of his battered head as he began to sob silently with heaving breaths, muffled against her body. She felt herself thrumming from the force of his anguish as if her body were physically absorbing some of his pain.

"Shh, it is over. Michelangelo, you brave boy. You have done well. And it is over. It is time to go home," she murmured to him, petting and stroking the back of his head and shell; feeling a sense of protectiveness spear through her like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

She had never been given the task of comforter to anyone or anything in her life. Ever. There were no siblings for her to see after. No pets allowed. No mother to emulate softness and empathy. Temperance and care. No room for sentiment in long days of training and education followed by more training then bed.

And in that time, she had been molded under strict tutelage of masking emotions and controlling one's composure. She had the steel of her father's will at her back along with the blades on his fists to hammer home what was important in life. It was better to be hard and cold than soft and weak. These were the ideals of a ninja and kunoichi. To be cunning and cruel, to be deadly and above all else: heartless. Ever heartless. Emotions were for the weak and foolish.

Karai strove to make her father proud, as any child wishes of their parent. She worked at caring for little to nothing. And had for most of her life.

But now. Karai sighed in resignation. In surrender. She gave a small shake of her head. Her world seemed to be continually turned upside down because of these mutant brothers. And in the pit of her heart, she was more grateful for their presence in her life than anything else.

She had never considered herself mother material. Scoffed at the idea of ever having children on the best of days, sneered at it most of the time. She was not a domesticated cat ready to be declawed and regulated to the walls of an enclosure. There was no man that deserved such a bend in her spirit, such a willing compromise to her wild nature. But here, holding this boy, so shattered and frightened, she felt a glow of something amazing and wonderful. Something terrifying and unsettling. And her thoughts turned to Leonardo. But instead of wanting only to win him back with Michelangelo as her bargaining chip, she only wanted to return that which was so precious to him. Nothing more.

She would try to win his heart another way. Another day. Right now, she had to help Michelangelo get home. Where he belonged.

Peeling herself away from the boy took some effort. But finally she succeeded.

She spoke firmly, but in a soft voice, "Now, enough of that."

He blinked, staring straight into the mess he left on her breast. Then slowly he raised glassy eyes to meet hers.

"You have been so brave. Now, I need you to be strong just a little while longer, okay?"

He nodded once.

"I can help you. But I need you to-"

Her voice was cut off as a shadow emerged from behind her, looming up so quickly and so large that even as Michelangelo shrank back with a terrified shriek, it only grew larger and larger.

Eyes, pale and gray, seemed to glow from the black depths behind his rescuer. Eyes like a demon's.

A flash of silver cut through the dim light and a streak of red shot out. The hot blood spraying Michelangelo in the face before he could turn away. Karai's white hands reached up, fingers clawing at the air uselessly, as the blade came down again; this time into her body between her shoulder and neck. Her body jerked. Blood filled her mouth and spilled down her chin.

Karai's eyes opened up impossibly wide and her shocked mouth moved from the open 'O' of surprise to form words he couldn't hear above his screaming.

Finally ringing through like the resounding echo of a blast, he heard it. Heard it as she screamed the command to him with all the breath she could manage.

_"RUN!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeee!


	17. Best Laid Plans

_"A waterfall from a higher place told me all about you._

The funeral of the man I was . . .

told me not to doubt you.

_Oh, what we could do with your dress up round your shoulders._

We could leave . . .

all our fear behind." –Mason Jennings, Ulysses

* * *

 

The black locks of her silken hair filled his vision as she fell to the side. Crimson spray colored the gray light, pale white hands reached up through the gloom into nothing. The world was awash with colors, but a savage rage blinded him.

His trembling thighs coiled, bunched and he sprang forward, up off the mattress, barreling into Malcolm's body.

Malcolm grunted.

Mikey screamed.

It was wordless and animalistic. A howl of depthless rage, immeasurable anguish, complete hatred. Together they rolled back and over and back until Mikey's shell struck the table with a loud clatter. The world tipped and the ceiling was the floor and the floor was above him. His legs in the air once more. A position that had his stomach roiling in remembered fright. Pain tightened its grasp on him, and Mikey felt the heat of his blood from his nearly severed tail flowing between his legs to dribble up and over his hips in fat wet drops.

His legs kicked as he squirmed to right himself. The table wobbled. The pill bottles scattered and fell, spilling white capsules. They twirled and spun as they rained down like artificial snow, bouncing on his face, shoulders and chest. The container filled with powder, crystalline and fine, dusted him like powdered sugar onto a sweet.

He didn't mean to inhale it. But it coated his face, his lips and chin, stinging his eyes. It was everywhere. The all too familiar taste, so acidic and flat, overwhelmed his aching mouth and swollen tongue. He could not swallow for the parched condition of his throat, but he didn't need to, the powder dissolved. It disappeared into his system almost as soon as it touched his lips and tongue. Seeping inside him to race through his veins, poisoning him, drugging his senses.

Malcolm loomed on top of him. His hair was mussed and stuck up in odd tufts. Tears streamed down his puffy face. He was screaming something at Mikey but there was something wrong with his hearing. He could only hear the high-pitched whine of the drugged-laced blood racing through his veins. Could only see Malcolm's bloodied lips pull back and bare the crooked line of his teeth, white nestled in black-red gums, so white in the dark they appeared to glow. Mikey's eyes couldn't focus on anything else. The perfect line of those gleaming teeth, like a row of square pieces of gum.

From the corner of his vision he saw the scissors rear up, flashing like the eyes of a predatory creature, hungry for his heart. The scissors that Malcolm had used to cut through the flesh of his broken tail, but also to puncture Karai's throat.

Karai, so beautiful and kind. His rescuer. His queen, his angel.

His brother's deepest secret. But Mikey knew.

He'd always known about Leonardo's feelings for the mysterious woman. He thought he hid it, but Mikey could see it, the way he tensed when she was brought up. The flicker in his eyes, so quickly hidden he sometimes wondered if he really saw it. But it was always there where she was concerned.

He had always hoped that Leo would find happiness with her, but doubted it. Until he saw her in this hell. Like a dark angel descended from heaven into this rank dungeon to save him. He knew. Karai  _was_  good. She was good. Leonardo could be happy.

But now . . . His throat tightened.

But as the scissors rose higher, he stilled; body going into frigid shock, exhausted beyond the ability to move, though his attack against Malcolm was only moments ago. But his resources were long spent and his emaciated body could give no more. A sort of numbing acceptance fell over him. His mind was clearer than it had been in days. Clearer than it ever was in his entire short life.

_I'm ready now. Goodbye my sweet brothers. I always loved you most._

But instead of a killing blow, Malcolm fell into a crouch, dropping the scissors to the side. His hands fluttered over Mikey's face and head, swollen lips pressed against him. Then again. Hysterical crying and mumbling that Michelangelo could hardly make out as the man pressed his forehead against his snout and chin, continuing to blubber and kiss him.

Mikey could only lay there, quaking and bleeding, feeling the agony that was a near constant companion to him these past few days rippling through his heavy, tired body. Feeling this man pour his twisted love all over him. Filling him with poison. Like the little white pills that danced behind his mind's eye. Malcolm continued painting his face with tears and blood that for a change did not belong to him.

More than anything, he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep. He could barely keep his eyes open. The world was growing darker with each passing second.

"Mikey! My Mikey! What has that slut done to you? I told you I would protect you and that whore found us! We have to get out of here. Do you understand, my love? More will come." His voice rose to a squeal, "That fucking slut! This is all her fault."

Michelangelo's heavy-lidded eyes fell on Kenso's head. The mouth hung open at an odd angle and it looked to Mikey as if the man was grinning openly at him. In fact, the eyes were closed, pinched shut in merriment. Mikey stared for a moment, then his eyes rolled up to the ceiling beyond Malcolm's head.

A giggle erupted from between his lips. Then as it escaped, it grew into a chuckling; a wheezing; a terrible guffawing. He couldn't stop. It hurt his chest and ribs from the force of it but he couldn't stop. His body bounced, racked by the booming laughter.

Malcolm tensed. His worried ministrations paused.

Mikey wrapped his arms around Malcolm in a loose embrace as the room spun all around him. The man was the only thing standing still. He was his anchor in the storming sea of madness. He couldn't let go and he couldn't stop laughing, even as the tears, hot and burning, blinded him and spilled down his face and his breath hitched in painful gasps.

Malcolm turned his face and kissed Mikey in a deep, slow way that muffled any further laughter.

Smothering him into silence. Into compliance.

Submission.

* * *

The van skidded to a stop, back wheels slid sideways over the slick street, nearly careening into a spin-out. Raph didn't even wait for it to come to a complete halt, merely leaping and pulling on the handle of the door, yanking the large side door out and open.

He clambered inside, wasting not a second as he screamed, "Go!" Wheels spinning, Leo pulled out into the street and pealed into the busy intersection, neatly sandwiching the vehicle in between a pick-up truck and another van. Ignoring the blast of the van's horn, he looked up into the rear view mirror to his brother.

"There's a shelter in the backyard. That's where she said he was."

Don was hunched over in the passenger side seat, staring forward into the rows of cars in front of them, slowing them. Like evil demons in miniature, break lights glowed red in front of them. The windshield wipers frantically swiped the glass, smearing the falling snow in a wide arc, blinding before clearing each and every time.

His fists were clenched tightly to the strap of his bag. The bag he always seemed to carry with him. With good reason. It was full of emergency supplies. First aid. Water bottles. Things that he brought with in the likely event that one or more of them were injured in their exploration of the outside world.

There were so many things to prepare for. So many possible things that could bring harm. Though he tried to prepare himself, it never seemed to be enough. He looked helplessly at the bag on his lap. His mind raced as he thought of how many days Mikey had been gone. Considered all that might have happened to him. What his injuries would possibly be. Was he fed? Was he in one piece?

_God help me, let him be in one piece._

Raphael was between the seats now. His breath steamed in the chilled air of the van. Vaguely, Donatello made a note that he needed to fix the heater again. The thought, so mundane given the circumstances they found themselves in, shocked him, then shamed him. He dropped his head.

"What else did she tell you?"

Without taking his eyes off the road Leo answered, "Only that she had the guy incapacitated and was going to set Mikey free."

Raphael's fingers gripped the seats until the chairs groaned and his knuckles turned pale. He looked like he was about to be sick. "It was one of her guys then."

Leonardo's eyes snapped to the side then back to the road. He hit the brakes hard, nearly plowing into another car, making Raph lunge forward.

"It's not like that." He paused. "She would have told us," Leo added, voice low.

Raphael laughed. Bitter and cold. "Right. Just like she told ya we were fucking."

The muscle in Leonardo's jaw worked, his focus on the street ahead intensified. The wipers continued to beat and squeak against the windshield. Blinding and clearing. Smearing the delicate snowflakes into an arc of dirty water.

Donatello broke the tense silence. "What do we do with him?"

Leonardo and Raphael both turned to look at Don simultaneously. The answer was clear in their eyes, in the grim set of their expressions. It was the first thing the two of them agreed on in ages.

Donatello gave them a nod. So, there was hope for his brothers after all, Don thought with some sarcasm.

* * *

Malcolm gathered Mikey's trembling form up, sliding his arm under both knees and bracing the back of his shell with his other arm. His limbs hung, heavy and useless, one foot draped languidly over the other. Mikey's head lulled back and Malcolm shifted until his chin came down and his cheek flopped onto his chest. Malcolm could hear the grinding coming from his teeth. With shaking legs, Malcolm stood up.

"You not as heavy as when I first met you, Mikey," Malcolm said in a conversational tone. "I'll have to fatten you up once we get out of this place. I'll make you your favorite meals. Everyday we'll play games and make love and laugh and talk. Like it was supposed to be. No more fighting. No more arguments. No more tail to get in the way. We'll have a life together. Far away where it never snows and we can share ice cream cones and eat all the M&M's until we puke," he chuckled. "Does that sound good? Does it Mikey?"

He shook Mikey in his arms but Mikey could only moan softly, cracking his eyes open just a slit before closing them again. Malcolm's eyes roved over the spilled containers of pills and noted the GHB had tipped and spilled all over Michelangelo's face. He frowned.

"Oh, no wonder you're so sleepy. That's okay. I have something to wake you up later, once we get out of here. Then we'll laugh about all this until we just start to cry out eyes out. I miss your laugh. That sound you make. Like bells. Did I ever tell you it's like bells when you laugh? I used to watch you and every time you'd laugh, I would laugh. From where you couldn't see me, but it was the only time I'd laugh. And you laughed so much. So often. You made me feel happy and you didn't even know me. You didn't even see me. Did I ever tell you that?"

He stopped talking as he turned and noted that Karai was squirming across the floor, leaving a wide smear of blood. Malcolm sighed in irritation.

As he sidestepped around her to head towards the stairs, he felt her hand close around one ankle. He stumbled forward, nearly falling on Michelangelo.

"Let him go," she commanded with a weak voice.

Malcolm twisted, a sneer on his face. He jerked and pulled on his leg, hopping on his other foot, but Karai tenaciously held him with both blood covered hands. She was groaning and cursing at him in Japanese but Malcolm had never bothered to learn the language, despite it being a requirement to be promoted within the ranks. He saw no point. It was an ugly language to him. As were all things he didn't understand.

Frustrated, he dropped down on his knee and laid Mikey down. The turtle rolled to his side and moaned, but remained still. Malcolm turned and lobbed his fists down onto Karai's head.

"You – filthy – slut! You – can't – have him – too!" He screamed with each blow.

Karai weakly blocked. Her face slammed painfully into the floor and she could do little more than cover her head with her arms and continue to bleed.

She never hated herself more than she did in this moment. She should have been stronger. For Leonardo. But mostly for the little mutant boy laying there. She felt herself get a flash of strength just looking at his small body laying there, so helpless. She couldn't let Malcolm hurt him anymore. She couldn't let this madman take the boy away. Her fingers clawed at Malcolm's fists, tearing into the flesh. But she was not strong enough to do more than that.

Malcolm reached down and took a fistful of her hair, lifting her head so he could look at her face.

"I know what you do. I know what you want. But he is  _mine_." He slammed her face once into the floor. Her entire body jumped from the impact. He raised her head up again. "You filthy pig, slut, whore," he spat the names at her face.

Blood spilled out of her nose. The blinding pain told her it was broken. She reached up and tried to dig her nails into the flesh of his hand. She knew if she had more strength she could bring her legs around, and kick him in the throat or groin, but her body felt limp and useless. Her legs remained where they were. She had lost too much blood to fight more than what she was doing now.

She could only hope that she was buying Michelangelo's brothers some time. Bought with her blood. Willingly shed.

He stood up and brought her with him, dragging her forward by her hair. He made her face Kenso's head. Shaking her viciously. She snarled and growled at him.

"You see your little lap dog? He was no match for me!" Malcolm boasted and laughed in her face.

He twisted around. His eyes fell on the cattle prod. He threw her to the ground and picked it up. He spun.

Karai dug her heels and elbows into the floor to scramble backwards, her long coat catching and making the retreat more awkward. He hefted it in his palm and slowly his eyes roamed from the weapon to where she lay, his eyes lingering between her legs. Karai sneered at him, her face a mask of blood.

"I'll give you a fuck you won't ever-" he stopped; frozen in step and eyes locked on the floor near the cot where she had fallen earlier. He stooped and retrieved her cell phone. His frowning face snapped from the phone in his hand to Karai, then he twisted around to where Mikey still lay. He threw the phone down and the cattle prod.

"We have to get out of here," he said to the room. Then to Karai, "Bleed out like the pig you are."

Then he gathered Mikey back up into his arms and hurriedly limped up the stairs as fast as he could go. He shoved the doors open and lumbered out into the storm. Snowflakes blinded him as he pushed through the snow heading towards the driveway, towards his car. The sound of brakes squealing had him staggering to a halt.

Looking desperately around, he changed direction and instead headed for the house. His bottom lip quivered and he started to snivel. He planted several wet kisses on top of Michelangelo's head and brow.

"They're coming, Mikey. They're coming for us. That bitch called the Foot here and now there's no time."

He clomped up the stairs, opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. Then he hurried across the room and clambered up another flight of stairs, up to the bedrooms. He used his shoulder to open the door and leaned his back on it to close it. He stumbled forward and laid Mikey on the bed. Then he raced away.

Mikey's eyes rolled and closed. Then opened and rolled again. Somewhere in his mind he wished that the room would stop spinning. He felt like he was going to vomit but was too tired to. He wanted to roll off the bed and find a bathroom and for some reason his lower half of his body seemed to burn with a distant pain that was too bright to look directly at.

Dimly he was aware of footsteps. He knew he should have moved. If he were stronger, like Raph, he would have picked himself up off the mattress and jumped through that window. If he were smart like Donnie he would have found a hiding place where Malcolm wouldn't have been able to locate. If he were brave like Leo he would tell Malcolm to kill him.

But he was none of those things. He was weak. Useless. He started to cry.

Then the familiar scent of Malcolm, of rank sweat and something sickly sweet, cloying washed over him. He felt the bit of something cold and sharp next to his throat. A tremor went through him. But he wasn't afraid. For the first time in days, he was not afraid at all. He was relieved. Because he had been given the chance to be courageous. Now he could try to be like his big brother. His hero.

The man's voice, wavering and thick with tears was suddenly next to his face. "I won't let them take you, Mikey. I promised that I would protect you. Forever. I won't let them take you from me. Never. Never ever, ever!"

"Yes. Kill me. Please."

Malcolm froze at Mikey's words. He raised up off of him quickly as though he was suddenly afraid of the young mutant. He sat on the edge of the bed staring at him, then down at the kitchen knife in his fist.

"No. I can't. You're too precious to die. Unless . . ." A noise caught his attention. Doors slamming shut, voices shouting. He dropped the knife onto the mattress next to Mikey and stood up.

He raced to the window and a gasp escaped his mouth. "No, oh no. No, no,  _no_!" he squealed softly, bouncing in place. Then he looked at Mikey and licked his lips. "It's not the Foot. How . . . Sh-She . . . That  _bitch_!" he hissed. He started to pace, running his hands through his thinning hair. He started to mumble incoherently. "There's no time. There's no time. They'll take you. They'll take you from me. B-But I . . . I . . . I did it before. I could . . ."

He stood still, eyes locked on the ceiling. Then he smiled and his shoulders slumped. He climbed up on the mattress and placed both hands on Mikey's cheeks, turning him to face him. He kissed him softly, then more urgently, then all over and around his mouth.

Mikey could only grimace.

"I know what to do. L-Listen, lover. I have to go. But I haven't abandoned you. Do you understand? We-We have to part for now. Only for now," he rushed on, "I will find you again. We will not be separated for long. Do you understand me? I love you, Mikey. You are my everything. I can't live without you. I won't. Not for long. Okay? So, be strong. Okay? And remember, that I will find you. That's a promise." He kissed him again and then stood up and dashed from the room.

Mikey lay there, trembling, unsure of what was happening. Thinking it was a trick. A test. A trap.

His shaking fingers, numb and tips blackened with frost bite worked at the blanket on either side of him. They found the handle of the knife and closed around them in a weak grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The strangest music compels me to write some of my more disturbing scenes. Regarding the song at the beginning I see it as this: Malcolm's part is in italics, Mikey's response is the lyrics in plain text, broken like he's panting... Sick, I know.
> 
> It was Novus Ordo Seclorum, Terraform and MsMarvelDuckie mentioned wanting Mikey to get in some revenge, gave me the idea to have Mikey get in a few blows, wasn't originally planned, but I really liked this idea. It wasn't much, but at least he tried. Maybe he prevented Karai's death? – heh heh


	18. Here we Part

The shelter doors loomed ahead as Leo, Don and Raph ran through the thick snow. Breathing heavy, it was Leo who reached the doors first and threw them open. They descended into the dank underground. Leonardo, followed by Raphael and Donatello.

They barreled forward, faces darting about. The stench struck them each in turn.

"Gah," Raph turned his head, looking around the room with wild frantic eyes. "Where is he?"

"Mikey?" Don called as he strode forward.

Glancing around, searching for any sign of his brother, only vaguely noting the set-up of the room like something out of a horror movie, Leo stepped deeper into the room. His feet staggered to a halt. A choked sound came from him as he stood in the center of the room. Rigid and still. Staring at something on the floor in front of him.

Donatello frowned, eyes going from the shackles bolted to the bricks, the horizontal bar hovering over the battered mattress to his brother's back. His eyes darkened as his mind worked over the possibilities of the uses for such objects and restraints. The blood, the musky scent that left a cloying aftertaste in the back of his mouth that he couldn't rid himself of, no matter how much he tried. She had said he was here, that she had freed him . . . then where . . . ? His throat worked as his eyes caught sight of a feminine boot near Leo's foot.

Raph stood in stunned silence taking in the gore covered floor. His eyes were locked on the pool of murky black, face going more and more ashen. His mouth opened and closed as if he was trying to say something but forgot how to speak. He raised his head at the strangled sound that issued from Leonardo's throat. He spun and felt Don's hand catch him about the chest. Holding him back.

"What? Is-Is it . . ."

Then Leonardo fell to his knees, coat flaring out behind him; with shaking arms, he gathered the woman to him.

Raphael spotted the dark hair as her head flopped forward to rest on his brother's shoulder and immediately tensed. He writhed and struggled against Donatello. Fighting to get to her. Knowing she was hurt badly, knowing that she could tell him where Mikey was, needing to ask her before it was too late, fearing he'd lose his chance to say goodbye to the woman he'd fallen so hard for even if she never loved him back.

Don slammed Raph back into the wall. Raph grunted with the impact. Bringing his face an inch away, he captured Raphael's panicked gaze. Don held the stare for a minute, then gave his brother a sharp shake of his head.

Raph struggled a bit more and Don pinned him firmly. Pressing his splayed hand over his chest and shoving all his weight into his bulky brother, keeping him up against the wall.

"Leave him to her," Don's voice was a hoarse whisper. "You had enough."

Raph brought his wild, furious gaze to his brother's unrelenting one. They stared hard into each other's eyes until Raph blinked and dropped his. He nodded and his throat worked.

Don waited a moment and stepped back. He exhaled hard. Raphael immediately bolted around him. Don wheeled around.

_Dammit!_

Raph scurried across the room; fell to his knees just behind Leonardo; lumbered forward to bridge the inches that separated them. He unwound the scarf about his neck and handed it to Leo who was trying to curb the fountain of blood coming from a wound in her alabaster neck with shaking hands.

He took the scarf and with clumsy effort pressed it to her wound. Glassy steel-blue eyes rolled back to meet amber, deepened to a bronze with bitter sadness. Leonardo opened his mouth but Raph shook his head fiercely then scrambled backwards. Leo twisted, looking at Donatello helplessly and lost.

"Stay here, Leo. Do what you can. We'll find Mikey."

Karai murmured something that had Leonardo's head whipping around. He turned his face to listen, then snapped his head up to address his departing siblings.

"She said he took him," Leo croaked. Then in a stronger, but still slightly wavering voice, "Check the house. I'll be there in –" his throat caught and Donatello put up his hands silencing him.

"Take care of her, Leo," he ordered calmly. "I'll be back to help as soon as I can."

Don turned, catching the fragile, hopeful look in Raphael's eyes.

It killed him to see it. It twisted his heart in a painful, ugly way. He gave his foolish younger brother the only thing he could. The truth.

With a grim expression and a subtle shake of his head, he killed off any hope that Raphael may have held for Karai's survival. From the amount of blood she was losing, her complexion and the length of time between her call and their arrival, Donatello knew it was too late.

They needed to find Michelangelo and he would not risk his youngest brother's life coming to the aid of Karai. No matter how much she meant to his brothers. His priority was to find Mikey and attend to any and all wounds he sustained. Karai would come second. And he knew with certainty that she wouldn't survive that long. She had minutes, at best.

Raph's eyes bounced to where Leonardo knelt in a pool of blood, clutching the woman they both loved to his chest, murmuring. He wanted nothing more than to pull her away from Leo, to crush her to himself one last time. He set his jaw and turned away, relenting, giving his brother the bittersweet gift of privacy with the woman he loved in her dying moments. She would want him there with her anyway. Heart pounding even as it finalized its slow shattering that had started the day she made it clear that she would never love him; he took the stairs two at a time right behind Don, never looking back. He couldn't. Too many regrets, too much guilt trailed behind him like a clinging shadow.

The snow swirled around them. Raph sniffed hard and Don turned; gave him an intense scrutinizing look. He looked like he was about to say something and Raph braced himself to punch Don in the face. Donatello opened his mouth and then shut it with a snap and Raph was relieved. It was time to put this past them. All of them. He didn't expect Donatello to understand why he ever got involved with Karai. He didn't expect Leonardo's forgiveness. Wouldn't ever ask for it. But there were more important things ahead of them now.

"Let's check the house."

They burst through the front doors, following the trail of slush through the foyer and up the stairs. Donatello and Raphael split up going from room to room, kicking open doors and poking their faces inside dusty, empty spaces; calling and shouting for their missing brother. If he wasn't here, if it was another dead end, Raph didn't know what he'd do. As he moved past an open door, giving the room a quick glance, he froze in his tracks and stumbled backwards. Hands braced on the door frame for support, he spotted his brother, looking small and vulnerable, propped up on a bed.

"Don! Here! He's here!" Raphael screamed and lumbered forward as the sound of Donatello's footsteps running towards the room reached him. "Mikey!" Raph cried.

His eyes raked over the battered body. If it wasn't for the large blue eyes that peered at him in shock, Raph wouldn't have recognized the wraith on the bed as his happy, bubbly little brother. His mask was gone as well as his other protective gear. He looked frail and tiny, like a little child, filthy and neglected. The usual verdant green of his flesh was a sickening dusty grayish-green, blotted by black and yellow bruises, clotted blood and gore. His eyes were wide and haunted and dark circles colored the sunken flesh beneath them.

A lump formed in the center of Raphael's throat, choking him. His chest heaved and his heart plummeted. What had happened to his baby brother?

# # #

Michelangelo tilted his head as he thought he heard the voices of his brothers desperately calling for him. He told himself it was just another dream. He was so tired. The room floated around him and spots danced before his eyes.

He froze as a ghost sped by the doorway, all too real.

His weak grip tightened on the knife in his hand. He would not let Malcolm get him again. He knew he was too weak to fight him, too tired from whatever it was that poisoned him in that dungeon out in the cold backyard. Strangely, it looked like the unmistakable form of Raphael. And when he returned, Mikey felt his heart drop.  _No_. They were here.

He brought the knife up as Raphael stumbled towards him and with a swift motion, with all the strength left inside him, he brought the blade over his left forearm and sliced as deeply as he could. A stream of crimson painted his arm in hot blood. He grimaced and with a hitched breath brought the knife up to the side of his jaw, unable to hold it in his left hand to do the right arm, laying limp and useless on the bed.

# # #

Raph saw the blade come up but didn't understand what was happening. He found him. Michelangelo was safe now. In disbelief and frozen horror, he watched his baby brother slice open his arm and then move to cut his own throat.

 _"Don't!"_  Raph shrieked and tackled the shrunken form of his little brother.

He only had to wrestle a moment to wrench the kitchen knife free from the blackened fingers. He threw it across the room with a shout of anger and fear.

Donatello was behind him, rambling off questions and commands that he couldn't focus on. All he knew was that his brother had seen him, he had looked right at him and then brought the knife down to end his life. Was he crazy? Did he think Raph was someone else?

"Fuck, Mikey! What are you doin'?! It's me! It's Raph! Don't you know me?! Mikey?" Mikey stared up at him, through him, with wide empty eyes. Raphael shook his head over and over. Why was he looking at him like that? Was he afraid of him? Why wasn't he speaking?

"Mikey?!" He gathered Michelangelo's limp body up in his shaking arms and kissed the top of his bruised head hard before being twisted around and pulled away roughly by Donatello.

Mikey flopped back onto the mattress bonelessly, left arm streaming blood.

"Get off him, idiot! Let me  _see_!"

Raphael stumbled off the bed and backed up until his shell hit the wall. As Donatello pulled the first aid kit from his bag and started to swiftly work on his self-inflicted wound, Raphael felt his knees knocking together.

"Why did he do that, Don? He looked right at me. W-Why did he cut himself like that?"

Donatello ignored his questions, focusing completely on wrapping the wound. He was saying something calm and repeating to Mikey about being in no danger, to breathe, to inhale and exhale with him. He asked him several questions before giving up and going back to instructing his little brother on the basics of breathing.

Raphael's knees finally gave out. He slumped to the floor and started to cry, resting his forehead against one hand, hiding his face as his terror, confusion, relief, and grief manifested into heaving sobs.

# # #

As his brothers left the shelter, a part of Leonardo hated himself for not leaving with them. Despite knowing she had little time, a part of him coiled and writhed with guilt and cold accusations of not loving his brothers as much as he pretended to. The voice was bitter and the tone was similar to Splinter's. It was the voice that continued to berate his every decision in life; the voice of his self-doubt and self-loathing.

He should have left with them. But her blood was pumping in torrents from the wound and he could not leave her on that cold cement floor to die alone. Not after all she had done to help them locate their missing brother. Not after she had apparently fought for him and would soon die for him.

And still, his heart was torn in half. As it would always be.

Her face was white, so white it was ghostly and wrong. Her green eyes stood out in frighteningly dark contrast, her lips red and bloody, her nose broken and mashed. He struggled with that inner voice and finally shoved it back and down to be dominated by it and shamed by it another day. There'd be plenty of time for self-hatred later.

Karai had fought for his brother's life. He could spare her a few minutes of his own.

Weak fingers gripped his coat at his shoulder, her body lay limp and heavy in his arms. Shattered. He broke from his trembling embrace and pulled his face away enough to look at her. Tenderly he kissed her forehead, her brows, her cheek before nuzzling into her neck and sobbing dryly.

"My love." Her voice was a whisper. A secret. A wish. "Don't . . . Don't cry for me. Not worth . . . it."

A tremor went through him. He pressed his face against the side of her head and rocked a bit as he felt her body tremble and spasm in his arms.

"Karai," he said between hitched breaths, gathering his courage, steeling his heart against the inevitable. "You have to hold on. You must. You're strong. You can't . . . you . . ."

He felt her shake her head and he pinched his eyes closed. His courageous front crumbled. He was left raw and vulnerable, unable to pretend to be strong any longer. He could never fool her any way. She always saw right through his act.

"Please. Karai, please. Don't leave. Don't leave me."

"I'm . . . sorry . . . everything . . . selfish."

Leonardo shook his head sharply in denial. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. I don't care," he murmured desperately. "I forgive you, I don't care." He choked, "Just don't die. Please, Karai."

Her arm dropped away from his shoulder and in fright he pulled back to look at her face. Panic lanced his heart.  _"Karai?!"_

Her glassy eyes seemed to dim a little as they rolled but then snapped forward to him focused on his watery gaze. Tears spilled down his cheeks, dripping down to mingle with the blood on her face.

"I love you," he said, voice thick with emotion. His face crushed into an agonized expression as he confessed everything to her. "I love you, I have always loved you. I will  _always_  . . . always  _love you_."

A ghost of a smile played across her face and her eyes fluttered. She finally had his heart. She had won. The game was hers and it had only cost her life. A price she was happy to pay. For his love was worth it.

Her lips broke apart and with her final ragged breath she told him, "I . . . loved you . . . too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice will break you if you listen to it while reading this . . . especially the end. I have to stop listening to such sad music as I write . . . or maybe I need to listen to more? XD


	19. Responsibility

Don's voice was low and harsh, "Get up. Help me."

Raph obeyed without hesitation, climbing to his feet, wiping his cheeks against one shoulder then the other. Anxious to help in any way, he moved forward. He glanced at Mikey, his little brother had an anguished expression on his face, but his eyes were closed, looking as though he was sleeping but having a nightmare.

Raphael's eyes raked over the condition of his body, but not actually registering what he was seeing. There were so many wounds. It was too much. Too much to comprehend. To accept. He made a strangled sound and coughed.

"Is he awake?"

Don shook his head. "I can't rouse him. Don't think it's a good idea anyway. Take his legs, but be careful. He's bleeding."

Raph's eyes widened as he noticed for the first time how the inner thighs of his little brother were coated in blood. How his tail was the size of a grapefruit.

They worked together to gently wrap him in the blanket he was laying on. Then as Donatello moved his upper body, taking Mikey under the arms, Mikey moaned piteously and struggled weakly. It was the smallest of sounds but it ricocheted through Raph's mind like a gun's blast. Raphael braced one hand on Don and shoved him away, catching Mikey's upper body in his arm before it could hit the bed.

"Raphael," Don hissed, righting himself.

"I got 'em." He looked up with wide eyes at Donatello. "I got 'em, Donnie."

Carrying Michelangelo in his arms like a sleeping child, they descended the stairs just as Leonardo stormed into the house. He stopped in his tracks, eyes red rimmed and dark. His face paled as his gaze fell on the shrunken figure of his baby brother in Raphael's arms.

Don looked at Leo. His chest, neck and cheek were smeared with dried blood. Donatello fled down the stairs and stepped around Leonardo, who stood frozen in place, a look of horror and shock on his face, eyes locked on Mikey in Raphael's arms. Donatello held the door open wide as Raphael sped past him.

Raphael did not look at Leonardo, knowing that Karai was gone just in the way Leonardo held his body, the way his spirit seemed to be dimmed, the glazed look in his eyes. Raph pinched his eyes shut tightly and barreled through the snow to their van. Don leaned forward, pulling the door open. They both froze and stared inside the van.

Karai's body was inside, wrapped with delicate care in a woolen blanket, tucked to the side.

With an audible swallow, Raphael climbed inside and without so much as glancing at her, sat with his shell against one wall where the seats had been removed. His body positioned slightly so that his shell was facing her. He couldn't look at the body. Didn't want to have her death confirmed in such an absolute way. If he never saw it, then a part of his mind could always just pretend. Just pretend that she was out there somewhere still loving his older brother above himself, and it would be okay to still be angry with her. It would be okay to still hate her for not loving him the way he wanted her to. The way he needed her to.

He held onto Mikey's shivering form, resting his cheek against the top of Mikey's head. Giving comfort as much as gaining it just from holding onto his missing sibling. From outside he could hear Don roughly, in a low urgent voice, confront Leonardo.

"This isn't a good idea."

Leonardo, coat billowing from a blast of frigid air, moved towards the van. The blood stains of his unrequited love stood out in dark contrast to the pale green of his face. His eyes were twin pools of fathomless grief.

Don reached out his arm, making him stop. Leonardo, keeping his head tilted away, clenched his jaw. But Donatello remained firm. Cold in his logic. Steady in his resolve.

"Michelangelo is the priority."

The fist came out of nowhere and clipped Don squarely in the jaw. Stars erupted across his line of vision. He fell back into the snow with a grunt. The force of his trajectory plowed a wide path until he skidded to a stop.

Leonardo loomed over him, seething. "You think I don't know that?" he hissed.

Don wiped at his lip with the back of his hand and glowered up at his brother. "Sometimes I've wondered."

Leo snarled. He drove down and gripped the lapels of Don's long coat. He hauled him to his feet and shook him hard before bringing his face an inch from his own. His eyes were wild, teeth gritted, fangs bared. "Everything I've done, was to find him. Karai . . ." he choked on her name, but went on, "If it wasn't for her help, we may have never found him. If it wasn't for her sacrifice, he may have died before we got here."

Donatello blinked, turned his face to one side, but his eyes remained locked on Leonardo's. He knew he shouldn't antagonize him, knew there wasn't time to bicker and fight over things that didn't matter at this point, but he couldn't help the words from spilling from his mouth, each bitter word bitten off and sharp, "If she had not been there that night, Mikey would never have been taken,  _Leo_."

He let the silent accusation hang. If he blamed Leo this entire time, he had not let on, not even to himself. But finding Mikey in the condition he was in, the facts of his injuries still not entirely known and the little he could discern were bad enough, it was too much. The blame surfaced. And it was harsh and cold. It was complete.

Leonardo had known Karai was there. He had known they were being tailed. He had his own reasons, foolish but understandable to an extent, for thinking there was no danger, Don knew. Just as he understood that Leonardo never dreamt that his interest in Karai could ever lead to such a nightmare scenario involving the most innocent of them. But he also knew that if Raph had better trained senses, he would have chased Karai and her men away the moment he knew they were there.

Raph, in some ways, protected them more efficiently than Leo with all his planning could ever do. Leonardo had failed them in not seeing the bigger picture, yet again. And the most vulnerable of them paid the price for it. The old contempt for Leonardo's shortcomings as a leader rose up, ugly and unrelenting.

He would never forgive Leonardo for this.  _Never_.

Leonardo held him, tightly in his fists; body shaking; his growl was low and steadily growing. Don kept his eyes locked on his brother's. Leonardo had an impressive, threatening growl, not as thunderous as Raphael's, but effective in its menacing quality. Don was not impressed.

When he was in the right, he would not back down to threats, no matter the kind. Truth and facts could not be intimidated by emotions, no matter how ferocious. The responsibility for all of this rested squarely on his brother's shoulders. Unwittingly or not, he had brought this nightmare down upon them all. To Donatello it was perfectly clear. Achingly so. Their leader had failed them. He'd failed them by having a heart. It wasn't fair. But life was not fair.

Donatello knew this better than any of them.

His own heart had been crushed and destroyed long ago with April's rejection of him. In its place cold logic had taken root. It took time, but he was grateful for the absence. But for Leonardo, no, there was no room in their leader's life for love. The cost was too great. As Michelangelo proved. And again, Donatello would never forgive his brother for this shortcoming. He should have been stronger. He should have understood the volatile nature of love and the chaos that it brought. He should have realized the risk was too high.

He braced for an attack, but Leo's shaking fingers released Don's coat. Donatello stumbled back a step. His older brother spun on his heel heading towards the van. He could feel his brother's tentative hold on his control trembling in the icy air around them. Leonardo pulled his composure around himself like a protective blanket, shutting himself off from Don's accusations and silent contempt. Donatello knew he was in a storm of emotional turmoil and yet he managed, somehow, to remain in control of himself. Now, that was slightly impressive.

"We're wasting time."

Don straightened his coat and jabbed his chin to the side, "Indeed. There is no time to make pit stops for dead Foot soldiers."

Leonardo froze mid-step. "I won't leave her here."

"You will not bring her to the lair."

"No."

Donatello tipped his head. "Michelangelo's life is on the line."

"Then stop wasting time," Leonardo snarled.

With a frustrated sigh, Donatello moved quickly to the driver's seat as Leonardo climbed into the back of the van to sit near Karai's body, where he could see Mikey still held in Raphael's arms. The engine started and Don pulled off onto the road. He mapped out the quickest way to the lair in his mind.

"Raphael, is he okay? Is he awake?" Leo asked in a gentle voice, thick with apprehension.

Raph shook his head, keeping his eyes away from his brother. He adjusted his grasp on Mikey and rested his cheek on his younger brother's head.

Leonardo stared at Raphael for another minute but it was clear he did not want to talk or answer. Leonardo resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to wait for his answers.

Throat clogged with questions, tongue coated with regrets, Leonardo fell silent and slowly, by inches, his eyes made their way to the still form next to him. The lump in his throat strangled him and kept him quiet, even as unshed tears stung him. They built and blinded but did not fall. He laid a hand upon the lifeless remains of his heart's deepest love. He rested his forehead against his fist, elbow propped on a bent knee and closed his eyes as the van pulled into the busy intersection.

He could not leave her in that pit of pain and despair. But he also thought that Raphael may have wanted to say goodbye to her. He thought he'd give his younger brother a chance to pay his respects. Though it hurt him, he understood his brother truly cared for Karai. But Raphael kept his shell to him, locked in the silent hell of fear and worry, grief and desperation.

It was the route that he knew Donatello would take. The quickest possible way to their home. And it was on this particular route that Leonardo had the van stop for the briefest moment. He waited for a moment, nudged Raphael but his brother only turned his head away. Wanting nothing to do with saying farewells.

A fresh hurt lanced Leonardo's heart and he did not understand his brother's stubborn reluctance to let go of the anger he felt at this woman who had given him so much. Something that Leonardo would have treasured had he not been so strapped to duty and responsibility over the yearning in his heart. Above all that she had died to give their little brother a chance. Didn't that earn at least an acknowledgement of her sacrifice? But it was no use.

Leonardo scooped her into his arms. "A minute, nothing more."

Donatello sat, grim faced and laden with the weight of his disapproval, gripping the steering wheel in his fists, tempted to just take off and leave Leonardo to find his way back to the lair on his own. It wasn't that far. But mercifully he held out against that cruel notion. But the temptation remained.

Leonardo knelt. Head down, chest heaving. He laid her gently onto the ground at the back gate of the abandoned park where they had met not so long ago, under a night sky that alternated between the soft light of the full moon and darkness that engulfed and devoured the meager streams of blue illumination. He brushed his thumb over her forehead and gently kissed the cold flesh before quickly taking her cell phone from his pocket. He erased the number that Donatello had given her. Her only way to reach them.

And somehow her death took on a finality that left him shuddering where he stood. Feeling as though the world had, in that moment, shifted and some permanent corruption had taken hold of him. He turned the phone on and left it on top of her. Her clan would locate her with ease. He then wheeled around and fled as fast as he could back to the van. He had been gone not more than a minute or two.

He did not look back. There was nothing to see. Only the lonely fading dream of all that was once possible, now lost.

As he climbed into the van, Raphael glanced at him with wide haunted eyes. His throat worked and despite the darkness, Leonardo could see the wet trails the tears had left down his face. He dropped his head, unable to meet the pain so clearly written in his younger brother's eyes. The pain that so perfectly mirrored his own.

He wondered if Raphael regretted not saying goodbye. But it was too late now. The moment had past. Karai was gone. There remained only the memories of her face, her voice, her touch and all the anguish that those memories brought.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Raphael clung to his sleeping brother like a shield to his grief. Donatello drove on in barely contained fury and a racing mind. Leonardo sat alone, drowning in guilt; remorse draped one lovely limb over his shoulders behind his bowed head, making herself comfortable for the long haul.

# # #

Master Splinter ushered Raphael through the living room, glassy eyes never leaving his child's face, leaning heavily upon Raph's chest. Donatello tore his coat from his shoulders and left it where it fell. Running ahead of Raph and immediately prepping the area of his lab that served as infirmary for Mikey's diagnosis and treatment.

Leonardo followed behind. He stood by, in the doorway, anxious and ready to lend any help that was needed. He hesitated, knowing that Donatello would need room to work and crowding a patient was never a good idea.

Raphael laid Mikey down as gently as possible on the padded table and backed up. He stood bouncing on the balls of his feet as Donatello and Master Splinter unwrapped the blanket from around the battered body of his brother and child.

Splinter stiffened; mouth going dry, heart thumping as his knees went weak. The injuries lay exposed under the harsh bright light of the lamp that hung suspended over his child. The wounds glared at them, ugly and raw, oozing and screaming of the torment that the youngest had endured.

Donatello closed his eyes and placed a hand gingerly on the top of his brother's head. He swallowed and leaned forward, eyes roving over his little brother's body.

Mikey let out a soft moan and his arms and legs twitched from both the light and the change in temperature from the cold air that he'd grown accustomed to and the warmth of the lab. His limbs were mottled with bruises, patches of flesh darkened with various degrees of frost bite. His left arm was bandaged but the wound beneath had soaked through the material, staining it a dark red. His throat had a large circle of burnt flesh just under his jaw and a band of raw flesh ran in a wide path where it was obvious that he'd been collared; his wrist bore the same injury, though the skin was much more damaged. The jagged wounds and gashes told a tale of struggle.

Master Splinter gripped the edge of the table. A tremor went through him, shaking him as his stomach rolled. Raphael continued to swear under his breath in an anguished voice from where he stood behind him.

Michelangelo's face, his tender sweet face, was battered and nearly unrecognizable; mouth swollen, cheeks sunken, eyes circled with purple. He'd lost a large amount of weight considering the time he was missing. Overall he was covered in filth and a mix of both dried and dripping wet blood. The blanket he lay upon was slick with it. Particularly between his legs.

As if looking in the same spot at the same time, Raphael and Master Splinter hissed. His tail was wrapped in a crimson drenched handkerchief, but the material could not hide the fact that it was hanging at an odd angle and swollen thick and round like a baseball.

"My child," Splinter choked. "What has happened to you?"

"Compresses," Donatello started to say, then his face snapped up and he shouted, "Raph! The ice packs." Raphael jumped out from his horrified daze and raced from the room.

Donatello straightened; spun on his heel and quickly began to scrub his hands in the wide metal sink installed against one wall. He spoke in a calm voice to the foaming between his fingers, "Sensei, I suggest you wait in the living room. I need to examine him and begin treating those wounds."

"But, Donatello. I . . ."

"Please, Sensei. If I need you I will call. But I must get to his arm. It was slashed," he explained without getting into the troubling detail that the wound was self-inflicted. His mind was already compartmentalizing the wounds, prioritizing injuries based on what needed attention foremost, assessing how much time he had before Michelangelo awoke. Because then . . . the more delicate situation of his young brother's mental and emotional state would need to be addressed. Something he was not looking forward to.

He had seen Michelangelo deliberately slash his arm, he had seen from behind Raphael's shoulder as his brother raised the knife to his throat with the intention of cutting it. He had seen the recognition in his face, followed by the despair. In the very moment of deliverance, he had wanted to die. Donatello understood without exactly knowing that his brother had endured a living nightmare. One that was not over just yet.

Stunned but acknowledging and trusting his son's prowess when it came to the family's medical needs, and not wishing to hinder his youngest son's recovery, Splinter turned reluctantly away. Leonardo was there to gingerly lead him out of the room. Once clear of the lab, Splinter took in a ragged breath. Then another, doing his best not to hyperventilate, but remain composed. It was a struggle. His hand tightened on Leonardo's forearm as he swayed. He glanced up as Raphael rushed back inside with several packs of ice in his hands.

"Don, here. Got 'em. Now what?" Raph's voice was rough with fright and determined helpfulness.

They heard Don snap at him to wash his hands. Leonardo felt a twinge of hurt at not being asked to help, but he quickly brushed it away. Donatello was angry with him and he needed to focus on Michelangelo right now. The last thing he needed was for Leonardo to be in his way, physically or emotionally. Despite wanting to help, Leonardo accepted it. Besides, Master Splinter would want him to explain.

After every mission, whether action packed or tediously dull, it fell on Leonardo's shoulders to relay the details of their excursions. As clearly and fully as he could. Master Splinter wished to know everything. Even when injured, unless grievously so, he waited his turn and spoke with his father about the events while his brothers were administered to first. He never complained, but shouldered the burden as part of the expectations he was held to as eldest. As their leader.

Master Splinter released his arm. With wavering strides, he moved to the kitchen where he sat heavily on a chair. A creased hand rubbed across his tired eyes. Leonardo followed, face pale, and slowly shrugged out of his black trench coat. The ends dripped onto the floor. Gray splotches of melted snow dotted the floor near his feet. He held it between his hands, wringing the material, unwittingly.

"Where-" Master Splinter's voice croaked and he had to clear his throat and begin again, "Where was he?"

"In a house near the docks, Master. But he'd been kept in a . . . an underground shelter of some kind in the yard of the home."

"Outside?"

Leonardo could only nod, staring down at the table.

That explained the frost bite. Splinter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes locked in the direction of the infirmary. The week had been particularly cold. His child out in the elements . . . his blood boiled. And so, his mind turned to vengeance.

"And what of his captor?"

Leonardo blinked, he opened his mouth and closed it. His mind raced. Karai had said on the call that she had taken the man out, but when they had gotten there, he was nowhere to be found. The beheaded Foot soldier could not have been him, as Karai said he'd fled with Mikey. So she had not managed to kill the man, but possibly wound him.

And yet . . . his brothers had said nothing to him of the man who had kidnapped their brother. If they had confronted him, they would have told him something. Everything was so rushed when they brought Michelangelo from the house. And Karai . . .

The room spun and dark circles danced around the edges of his vision. He reached out and steadied himself against the table. Leonardo was completely lost. He looked up and withered at the expectant expression on his father's face. His tail lashed back and forth in waning patience, claws clicked on the worn surface.

_Click, click, click._

"I . . . I don't know, Sensei," he replied breathlessly.

His claws stilled. His body tensed. Splinter's eyes flashed. "What do you mean you do not know?"

There had been no time. Karai . . . she was dying . . . he had but seconds to open his heart to her, he had not thought to ask about the man that had taken Michelangelo. Was it so wrong that his mind was not trained on the monster that had taken his brother, but on the love dying in his arms? A resurgence of debilitating guilt made his knees go weak, he could stand no longer, but rather, fell into the chair adjacent to his father's. He dropped his coat to the floor. All the breath fled from his lungs.

A part of him knew that he had not done wrong in sharing those final minutes with her, and yet, a larger part, a much larger part chastised him as selfish. The part that he'd shoved aside as he knelt with her in his arms. The part of him that was ever critical and filled with loathing for every action and reaction he made. Every decision questioned and filled with doubt.

He was too tired, too stricken with grief, too worried about Michelangelo, too fearful of what his little brother had endured to fight the voice, to endure his father's disappointment in him. He dropped his head, losing the battle of his despair. He could not be more of a failure. And still his Sensei demanded answers. He swallowed and steeled himself to speak. To explain.

"I . . . thought that . . . sh-she told us that she'd taken him out. Don and Raph went to find Mikey . . . but didn't . . . they didn't tell me if they saw anyone. I wasn't thinking about anything but . . . Mikey and getting him home. He was injured and there was no time."

He trailed off and continued in a softer voice, "Karai . . . sh-she saved him . . ." He looked up, eyes desperate for his father to understand what sacrifice his love had made for them, for Michelangelo. "Master Splinter we w-wouldn't have found him without her h-elp," he rambled weakly but fell silent at his father's dour expression.

Splinter's amber eyes darkened. His hand covering his other hand on the table top tightened.

"It was up to you to find him. I do not care about the wretched kunoichi's fate," he hissed.

Leonardo flinched.

Splinter rapped his knuckles against the table and leaned forward. "Do you mean to sit here and tell me that the man who took your brother and harmed him so . . . so heinously, still lives? That he remains free? And what is this about Donatello and Raphael? You split up? I do not understand. If you knew where to find him, why divide? Was it to search for your brother's tormentor?"

Leonardo's eyes darted over the table, searching for something to lock onto, to steady his quaking mind. Anything but to look into the disappointed and furious gaze of his father penetrating the side of his skull.

Splinter would not understand. He could not. He was not there. Splinter did not know how his heart ached for Karai. For how many years he loved her from a distance. For how many years he denied himself the happiness she could have given him; restrained himself from her advances, only to lose her to his brother's arms. And now to lose her for his younger brother's life.

She had saved him. Died for him. And yet, Splinter would care nothing for this fact. He would condemn Leonardo for indulging in those last moments of Karai's life.

He did not know what to say to his father. The one he'd never lied to, couldn't lie to. Fear and desperation curdled inside him. His stomach dropped and rolled. His hands went cold and clammy. His throat tightened. With one shaking hand, he used his knuckle to scratch at the dried blood on his chin and cheek. It flaked and he stared at his hand for a moment.

Karai's blood.

The scene in the room came back to him where he knelt, holding her lifeless body, still warm, still so soft, to his chest. His eyes going around the room, taking in and not really seeing the shackles, the bar, the severed head smiling at him, the bottles of empty pills, the blood, the blood everywhere, the mattress, the blood on the mattress; how he bit back the scream that was building, held it in for only the fear of giving away their location and possibly causing Michelangelo's captor to harm him before they could reach him. The control slipping, his feet sliding in the blood and gore, not knowing it if was his brother's or not.

Splinter's harsh voice, low but scathing brought him back. Chest heaving, he turned his wide eyes to his father. He was met not with disappointment, but utter disgust and loathing.

"Leonardo! Answer me! Why were you not with your brothers? What were you doing out there?" Splinter's voice was rising.

"I . . . I," he stammered, then, "I will f-find the one responsible."

The words were barely out of his mouth when he stood up, knocking the chair back. He stumbled over his feet and raced to the bathroom where he barely made it to the toilet and was violently sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now. There it is. Donatello's heartbreak led to the way he is in this. Oh, I kept adding and subtracting, changing and moving things around in this chapter, I hope it makes sense and flows right.


	20. No Bridge

It was not years that wedged divides between the brothers. Not age difference nor birth order. Nor was it the harsh conditions that defined a childhood filled with scavenging for scraps of food and materials to keep themselves warm or dry; truthfully their shared experiences of hunger and sickness, of isolation and fears, both realized and only imagined, strengthened their bonds with each other.

If anything, it was the never-ending self-doubt and questions of worth in a world that seemed indifferent to their existence let alone their struggles for survival. And these tiny self-inflicted fissures fractured and spread as each boy strayed further and further into the realm above, away from each other in their own ways, towards a world that seemed both so tempting and so foreign. The people inhabiting it so glorious and at the same time so completely alien; frightening; fascinating; violent; manic; breath-taking.

Gods in miniature made of flesh and bone, ruling a land filled with sunshine and ocean waves, flowered fields and sky scrapers that seemed to bridge the divide between heaven and earth.

And below all of this they endured, and managed, somehow to survive; coming together and pulling apart; each brother falling over time into a role designed by circumstances and manipulated by their father and teacher. Each boy fed their own secret hurts and private doubts about their individual value at different low moments over the course of years.

Raphael had his share of feeling impotent, useless and inept. But never more did he feel this than at the present. With his younger brother, his baby brother, laid out like a slab of drying meat as Donatello muttered between piecing together bits of flesh, measuring and prodding; looking for god knows what and every time he opened his mouth to protest the grunt of discomfort issuing from his unconscious brother, he was met with a steely, frigid glare and he'd snap his mouth shut once again.

"Don, talk to me."

Donatello shook his head and continued to quickly, yet gently, prod and mutter; calculating damage; moving to the wrapped arm and unwrapping the temporary bandage coated in crimson now darkening to rust. Then moving again down his legs, pausing a moment as his gaze fell upon the swollen appendage laying distorted and at an odd angle between his thighs. Don blinked slowly; taking in a shuddering breath before blowing it out.

Raphael's eyes bounced back and forth between Mikey's hand that he'd held firmly since bringing in the ice and Donatello's face. He felt Mikey's body jerk slightly at one of Donatello's nudges and the ice slid free from his bicep. Raphael, with utmost care, repositioned the pack over the deep purple bruise.

He immediately snapped his face in his older brother's direction. "For Christsake, Don, tell me something. I-Is he okay? What are you doing? Why aren't you workin' on his arm yet?" he demanded and Don bristled at the accusation he heard plainly in the question.

"DCAP/BTLS," he huffed out and Raph blinked, a horrified look spreading over his face. He started to rise from the chair and Donatello caught it from the corner of one eye and clarified, sounding only slightly less condescending than usual when speaking science to his younger siblings, "Deformities, Contusions, Abrasions, Punctures, Burns, Tenderness, Lacerations, Swelling. Standard battle field evaluations done in an emergency."

Raphael sat heavily. A look of relief was overtaken by frustration. He ran his free hand over his brow, then made a chopping motion in the air. "Tell me what to do. Will you please?"

Donatello straightened up then and said, "Okay, most of these are superficial, aside from the condition of his tail and his arm." He paused here and Raphael held his questioning gaze. "And you didn't . . ."

"What?"

"You didn't startle him, you don't suppose he thought you were his captor returning for him?"

Raphael shook his head. They'd been over this since Leonardo left the room with Master Splinter. "No. No, Donnie. He looked right at me. I saw it in his eyes. They . . . They sort of lit up, you know," he laughed and it was hollow, "like when he's excited but tries to hide it. Like on his birthday, just before we bring out his gifts," Raphael's voice hitched but he swallowed and carried on, "But then . . . the light, you know, in his eyes. It sort of winked out and he looked . . ."

"What? Apprehensive? Confused?"

Raphael shook his head vehemently. "No. He looked . . . sad."

Donatello pursed his lips. It was the answer he feared. He digested that information, eyes going flat as his mind processed the possible reasons that Michelangelo would choose suicide when rescue was imminent and then seemed to come back, sober and clinical once again.

"He's sustained bruising and contusions around his head and face. That burn on his jaw and there's another located on his side," He glanced at Raphael who seemed to brace himself, still clinging to Mikey's hand. "It was done with an electrical device, a stun gun of some sort." From the corner of his eye he saw Raphael flinch ever so slightly, but remained quiet, listening hard.

"No doubt there's some bruising around his ribs, I can't say to what extent, but I don't think there's any that are broken. I'll need to debride some of these cuts. They're infected," he said, leaning in and gently prodding one near Mikey's inner thigh, a thin stream of yellowish pus broke loose.

Then he looked again at his tail. Eyes moving up towards his brother's anus, he swallowed reflexively back as his gorge rose. There was damage here. The tender flesh was swollen and there was definite bruising. He frowned as his pounding heart stumbled.

There was no doubt. He'd been molested. The word flitted through his mind despite his strain to keep it from forming. That brutal word that caused so much more devastation than most any physical indignity.  _Rape. My baby brother . . ._  Michelangelo wasn't much more than a child, at sixteen he was the youngest by a number of years.

The room spun and he grasped the edge of the table.

Raphael caught his focused gaze and watched in horror as Donatello turned several odd shades of grayish green and then nearly topple over. His own eyes trailed to the spot that Donatello had been examining before swiftly looking elsewhere. Doing his best to give his little brother some measure of dignity. It was bad enough the way Donatello was going over him like that. But his older brother's obvious upset raised several flags in his mind.

"What's the matter, Don? Is it . . . Is it his tail? Why's it all big like that, all swollen up?"

Donatello glanced at Raphael. If it were any other situation they were in the middle of, he'd have mocked his brother's painful naivety. As bold and caustic as his brother was, he was in too many ways, similar to Michelangelo, innocent to the ways of men and the depths of their singular depravity. But his mind was already rejecting the fact that this had happened to Michelangelo. The very thought was too monstrous to accept, for couldn't that bruising have happened while his tail was being abused and nearly sawn off from his body?

Perhaps while Raphael was too naïve, he was too jaded. And a sense of betraying relief washed over him. He closed the door against the logic that demanded truth above sentimentality. Surely, this damage was nothing more than associated bruising from the tail. He used his fingertip and moved it to one side, upper lip curling with what he saw. It was barely still attached.

Mikey made a soft moan and Raphael tensed.

"Don't touch it!" Raph hissed.

Donatello pulled his hand back immediately. He sucked in his bottom lip and chewed on it. Glassy brown eyes rose up to meet amber gold, bright with dread. "This is . . . difficult. I-I think . . . whomever had Mikey was attempting to, uh, amputate his tail."

Raphael made a strangled sound. "What the fuck?! Why?!" He took several breaths, dropping his head and then asked, "Can you do somethin' about it? Can you save it?"

"I . . . I don't think . . ."

"Donnie," Raph's face was an anguished mask of pain.

He ran a hand over his face. "It would be a long recovery and there's still a chance that it would need to be removed afterwards. And . . ." he shifted. "There would be a great deal of pain in trying to salvage it. No."

He shook his head and crossed his arms, hugging himself. When he opened his mouth to continue, the words fell like dying embers, tasting of ash on his tongue, "I'm going to need to . . . ah, finish the job, I think."

Raphael's face blanked and paled then flushed in splotches of deep mottled red. "Oh  _fuck_."

Raphael released Mikey's hand and stood up. The legs of the chair squealed against the concrete floor. It flew back and hit the wall with a clatter. Michelangelo turned his head to one side and groaned. Raphael shook his head back and forth, covered his mouth and started to pace; stopping abruptly to twist and punch his fist into the wall.

Donatello started. "Raph!"

Raphael pressed both palms into the wall, leaning his weight and bending his elbows as if pushing against it like he was matching the pressure of all the weight of fury and despair rising within himself. He made a choked sound. The knuckles on his right hand were cracked and bleeding.

Don made an impatience noise. "I have my hands full here, Raph. If you need to act out in theatrics, then please, join our brother out in the kitchen with Splinter."

Raph turned anguished filled eyes towards Don who stared at him with a dark face and a deep frown. It took everything he had to pull the rage back. To swallow it down, back into the rotting well where it resided, in the center of his soul. Waiting with the patience of a mountain range for the next time he needed to reach down and draw from it. Mikey and getting him healed was more important than anything; more important than the impotent fury, than the desire for revenge, than the sick dread that laced his stomach with frost, than even his lingering grief over his unrequited love's death.

He dragged it back and drowned it down in that well; knowing it wouldn't go anywhere. It would be there when he needed it again. When he served justice to his little brother's tormentor. It would wash away morality and reason. It would coat self-doubt and regret so thickly he wouldn't be able to see those specters again. At least, not until night dissolved the veil and he would be left alone with the ghosts of his killings carried out in the blessed haze of insensible rage.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I want to . . . to help."

Don gave a brief nod. "Then help me get him cleaned. We need to sterilize him as much as possible before I can even begin addressing these wounds. Grab that basin, fill it with water and get the wash cloths I have stacked there."

Raph raced round the room feeling overly large and clumsy as he dashed between the small table that Donatello had pulled close to Michelangelo's cot then back to the cabinets, pulling open doors and slamming them shut once his arms were loaded up with first aid materials.

"The IV bag and tubing are in the cabinet there by the table. I want to start a drip. He's severely dehydrated."

Raphael set to gathering everything needed for the IV, doing his best to ignore the way his stomach sat tight and small and knotted in the center of his body. He brought the needles, strips of bandages and the jar of Betadine, that strange liquid that obliterated all germs but stained everything brown in the process that Don only used for the really bad cuts and gashes. He watched with a sick dizziness as Don was tying a flexible band around Mikey's arm and tapping at his inner elbow.

Donatello frowned at a mark that appeared to be a needle puncture. A thrill of unease ran through him. Michelangelo had been injected with something. Perhaps that was the reason behind his rash behavior when they'd found him. A poison? Drugs? Panic and a fresh wave of fury surged through him. But he pushed his anger and anxiety away in favor of the cool, calmness that he needed to draw on whenever any of his siblings were injured. He cared about what happened to Mikey. But right now he would serve Mikey best if he merely cared  _for_  him.

As he brought the tiny needle down into the swelling vein, Raph gulped; turning his eyes away and gently rubbed the top of Mikey's head as he moaned weakly and mouthed something that Raph could not hear. He dropped into a crouch and rested his chin on one bent arm, the other wrapped gently around Michelangelo's head, cradling the side of his face with it, cupping his brother's chin with quivering fingers.

His little brother's shoulders seemed narrow, making his head look disproportionately large to his body, somehow. As though in the span of days he'd been missing, he'd regressed by some years into the awkward preteen he'd been before his body had straightened out and filled in the large hands and feet with athletic limbs and lithe musculature; making him the fastest of the brothers, light on his feet and as lightning quick as his wit. To see him laying so still. Limp. It was too much to bear.

Raphael blinked at the sound of his brother's teeth grinding. And why? The pain? The fear?

If only he could, he would take it all from him. He could take it. It was his job, after all. To take the brunt of the attacks, to head off the worst of the attackers' initial adrenaline fueled rage so that his brothers could be shielded and only then come in to the fight. He was the soldier, the muscle, and he could take it all in, absorb the frenzied blows of the front lines of ninja; protecting his family against the raw bloodlust with his very bulk; the strength of his existence; his body.

But he could not remove these hurts from Michelangelo. No matter how badly he wished he could. He could not erase the scarring that he knew was there, yet to be wholly revealed; something he'd only glimpsed in his baby brother's eyes when he'd locked gazes with him on that bed. In that joyful, then terrifying moment when Michelangelo saw his rescue had arrived, but turned the light off in his eyes and brought the blade down and through his bruised flesh.

Raphael pinched his eyes closed and pressed his knuckle to his mouth so hard, he tasted blood. It should have been his arm. It should have been him, battered and bruised, mutilated and lost. Not any of his brothers.

And certainly not Mikey.

He began murmuring, "It's gonna be okay, Mikey. Hang in there. Genius Don's got ya. Gonna fix you right up." The tears stung and Raph continued to utter reassurances and wordless noises of comfort. His voice hitched and choked as he fought the overwhelming guilt and despair rising. "I'm so sorry. Gah, Mikey. I really fucked up. If only I took ya home like I was supposed to."

Donatello shot a look at him but then dropped his eyes. He mopped a piece of antibiotic drenched cotton ball over one narrow gash on his brother's limp thigh, then twisted and tossed it into the pile at his feet before reaching for a fresh one at his elbow.

"It's not your fault."

Raphael shook his head miserably. "I shoulda' just listened to Leo when he told me to take 'em home."

So much would have been different had he simply obeyed his eldest brother's command. He realized this with a sick twist in his stomach. She'd still be alive, for one. Mikey wouldn't have been taken. He wouldn't hate Leonardo for loving someone and keeping that love a secret. He wouldn't hate himself for stealing away a chance at happiness for him. He'd been so blind.

His regrets continued to pile into an insurmountable mountain range on the edges of his heart and mind. Donatello's voice, calm, level and filled with such a tone of bleakness that Raphael's face shot up and sympathy welled in his chest for him.

"I should have realized that Mikey wasn't behind me. I never pay attention to him or . . . any of you, really. I . . . I was so caught up in . . ." he stopped himself; sighed, heavy and with resignation.

If he had any strength in his legs at that moment, Raphael would have stood up and reached out to his older brother in that moment of rare vulnerability. But the moment was lost as Donatello pulled himself together and the walls came up between them as they always remained; the clinical, sterile curtain between them; opaque enough to make out his shadow, but nothing more.

"It's senseless to wallow. Bring that basin over here between us. I'll wash down his legs and take care of his tail. You start on that arm."

Raphael sat there another moment, face crushed in anguish and remorse.

"Raph."

He looked up and nodding, got to work; dipping the cloth into the tepid water, wringing it out between shaking fists, feeling the trickling liquid run over and over his fingers like the soup of his grief and regret and impotent anger spilling through the cracks within him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working hard at improving my writing and hoping that it doesn't mess with the flow or anything...hopefully adding depth...that's what I'm shooting for. Let me know what you think and you have my eternal gratitude for not only reading but taking that time to let me know. xo
> 
> A BIG THANK you to theincredibledancingbetty who once again saved my booty with her knowledge of first aid, wound treatment and general information on such banal things as amputations and debridement of infected wounds, LOL - I love you, WOMAN!


	21. Catch Me

The crawl space, for that was what it really was, nothing more than a span of angular space between four and two feet from floor to ceiling, was cramped and cold. But Malcolm did not suffer it as other people would. His passion fueled him like some internal furnace.

Across and over, around and beneath him, tacked at every imaginable angle upon the rafters and raw wood of the attic were the pictures. Some were actual photographs, others drawings, sketches, line art traced in wavering crayon. All of them depicted a singular subject: Michelangelo.

His laughing eyes, his strong body, his grace and beauty illustrated and on display to feed the manic obsession that burned within Malcolm's mind and body. He ached for him like never before; like a gaping wound festering and oozing within him, taking the space away from where his soul was supposed to reside.

Candles flickered and Malcolm squinted to better imagine that the wavering shadows were actually Mikey's silent laughter coming from each illustration. It made him smile in return; a watery grin that bared his crooked upper teeth. Seeing Mikey so happy always did that. It lit the faulty pilot within his heart to ignite something close to contentment and joy. Once it had been fired, there was no turning back. He needed that spark in his life. Needed it like breath and slumber.

When he was with Mikey, his life was filled with light. He thought back to all the laughter they'd shared over the past few days, all the tender, shy moments, the stolen kisses and whispered secrets.

But most of all he reimagined what it was like when he was inside his Dream Lover. Oh, he remembered the feel of Michelangelo wrapped around him, so tight, so hot; it was as though all that light was inside him and Malcolm could reach it if he pushed hard enough, strained deep enough to touch it; burning him alive when he finally broke through and oh, how he wanted to burn again.

Malcolm whimpered and rocked, biting on the corner of one of his drawings. With Michelangelo missing, it was as if his all the light in the world had gone out, leaving him lost in the dark, a shadow without its solid counterpart. A lonely ghost.

He shifted where he sat, the throbbing from Mikey's bite served as a painful reminder that despite his self-assurances to the contrary, Mikey still had a long way to go as far as understanding his role and purpose in Malcolm's existence. He didn't know why Mikey would be so violent with him. They weren't that kind of couple. It wasn't supposed to be an ugly thing. It was supposed to be the glorious summation of years of planning and longing. He should have felt it, too. Why didn't he?

Malcolm's face turned down into a frown. He reached out and pulled another picture free even as he crumpled the one he'd been nibbling on. He brought it close to his face and ran a finger over the smooth pane of Mikey's rendered cheek and jaw.

"You should have felt it," he murmured feeling a sudden swaying in his mind, a confusion. Hadn't they had fun together? He shook his head, clearly remembering the laughter and joking; the caressing and slow kissing; Mikey murmuring to him how badly he wanted to feel Malcolm inside of him.

As he had since watching, impotent and helpless, as they carried Mikey from the house down the snow covered walkway to their vehicle, tears welled and spilled down the hollows of his cheeks. He had clawed at the wooden beams above his head as he pressed his face into the splintery panels to peer through the cracks of the ventilation window at the apex of the house. He had chewed his lip to keep from crying out and now it hung, heavy and swollen, scabbed over and throbbing.

If there was any grief larger than watching his one true purpose being carried off like stolen property he could not imagine it.

Once they were gone, he had raged in a violent black mood. Slinking from the hatch hidden between the second story bedrooms and the linen closet, he'd ransacked the rooms, tearing apart the blanket that Mikey had laid upon with fists and nails and teeth. He had thrown one of the kitchen chairs through the front windows of the sitting room. It lay, half buried now, legs in the air, at a ridiculous angle out in the front lawn.

He'd stormed outside into the deep snow back to the shelter that served as his temporary love shack. He'd not been surprised to find the kunoichi cunt's body gone. He'd glimpsed the one in the long black coat take her from the shelter; a sneer curled over his lip as he noted the apparent grief on the mutant's face.

He knew that Karai had been seeing them, the little whore. If he'd thought ahead of time, he would have arranged more evidence to be dropped onto her father's lap. The little that he'd given him, anonymously, of course, had merely created a few whispered rumors that no one dared utter louder than a breath between lips and ears. Her punishment and humiliation would have been sweet to witness.

Ah, but it was not meant to be.

He'd then gone and ripped Kenso's head from the pipe, leaving behind a rich thick glob of gore. Carrying it by the hair, he'd gone and tossed it into the open grave where the rest of him lay beneath a thick blanket of snow. It had taken some effort, an entire can of lighter fluid to get it going as well as a series of frantic running back and forth to continually feed the small licks of flame dry branches. But despite the snow and the wetness, he'd finally gotten the blaze strong enough to destroy most if not all evidence of Kenso's body. Dental records would be the only way to identify him at this point.

Malcolm had stood, feet frigid, socks soaked, in the calf-deep snow; watching the brightness of the flames dance in front of him. Bones and sticks popped and crackled. There was a faint smell of roasting pork lacing the air. Malcolm licked his lips; feeling a strong urge to dive into the pit of cleansing fire, to feel those searing flames eat through him from the outside in until it met with the inferno that raged within him, completing the broken circle. He approached by inches, shuffling through the melting snow, until the blaze was hot against his face, making his eyes water. But he had stopped when the flames turned orange and took it as a sign that his beloved needed him here.

There was another way to bring the fire within him to merge with the light. There was only one other person in all the world that could satiate this yearning to be made complete. He turned away from the grave and headed back to his refuge. After eating a small snack he'd climbed back into the crawl space to nurse his wounds both external and internal; envisioning all the ways he would have liked to repay Karai for her meddling and for bringing Michelangelo's brothers to his sanctuary of love.

This attic space was his safe place. A secret. A haven.

When life in his squat apartment, separate from the bunkers at the Foot headquarters which all soldiers were given the option of living at, became too narrow, too suffocating and dense, he'd come here. He'd found it by accident. Assigned with his group to await a shipment, he'd gone off on his own, exploring the old house and found the hidden pull down latch which gave him access to the attic space. It quickly became his home away from home. His den. His lair. He filled it with the things that gave him the most happiness.

But gazing at all the images of his deepest truest love only served to swallow him deeper into the mire of depression that he found himself in.

"Mi-i-ikey," he wailed into the swirling dust motes, breath fogging in front of him, "Mikey. Dream Lover."

With that he burst into sobbing between belting out the lyrics of his and his lover's theme song. He had decided Bobby Darin's song would be 'their' song. It was perfect for them, after all.

He repeatedly tapped his forehead against one low hanging beam in time with the song; breaking into mimicking the back-up singers with a high falsetto, which only dissolved into more hiccupping sobs. Splotches of dried blood and clumps of hair that he'd pulled from his own temples littered the partially crushed boxes of crackers and crayons. He'd pulled each color out and snapped them into pieces earlier in a fit of uncontrolled rage.

He reached down and without thinking, his fingers caught hold of one. He held up one half of a bright orange crayon. He twisted it and turned it, examining it as he wiped his nose with the back of one hand and sniffled, rocking where he sat.

Orange was Mikey's color. Such a happy color. The color of freedom. The color of love. With a quick movement, he shoved the broken crayon into his mouth, chewing loudly and cringing, he moaned, "I'm going crazy without you."

He had to find a way to bring him back. Even if it meant killing every single one of those monstrous brothers of his. The little cunt fuckers.

He'd peel their skin from their bones and pop their eyes like so much jelly-filled bubble wrap. He'd roast them alive with the modified cattle prod . . . sticking it up their asses and triggering it until they screamed and squealed like the little pigs they were. Then once he and Mikey were reunited, they would make love in every room in the house. Over and over again. Yes, he'd never deny what Mikey wanted from him again.

"Never, ever, ever," he said as he chewed and rocked. He'd give him all the intercourse he wanted and then some. He'd never ask for anything in return. And they'd never fight and they'd fuck and fuck and eat whatever they wanted and lots of candy, "M and M's!" Malcolm shouted and nodded in the gloom, smiling with teeth flecked with orange bits of gooey wax, rocking back and forth, cupping his injured privates with one hand tenderly.

"M and M's, just like us," he muttered. "Just like us. Don't worry, Dream Lover, I'll rescue you. Somehow. Soon. I'll catch you again when they're not looking."

He needed a plan. Like before. He needed them to be distracted and preoccupied with themselves like before; leaving Mikey alone and vulnerable. Easy to swoop in and get Mikey away from those creeps that ignored him in all his shining beauty and glowing grace.

He did it once, he could do it again. They didn't see him like Malcolm did; his reflective light like a beacon in the night. They would overlook and dismiss him once again, he was sure.

They didn't appreciate Mikey like he did. They never would. Because some people never learned. Yes. It would be easy.

"Easy-peasy pie," he giggled and hiccupped and thought that he needed to tell that one to Mikey when he saw him again, he'd like that funny phrase.

* * *

The air was filled with the pungent scent of incense as he entered the private chambers. There were no other lights lit besides the smoldering sticks and thin candles positioned along the walls at various intervals. The room remained hidden in deep shadow despite the glow afforded by the candlelight. Perhaps it was fitting that no light seemed to be able to penetrate the surrounded darkness.

She had lived her life in shadows as was necessary. She had spent the ripe years of her young life hidden and darting between darkness and light as he had. It seemed wrong that he remained while his only child had moved on. His daughter lay in a white gown, hands resting upon her breast. Her skin was as pale as marble, perfection in death that mirrored the beauty that she was in life. An exact clone of her mother.

The Shredder removed his face plate as he stepped closer to the table where his only daughter lay. He dropped it where it made no sound against the plush carpet. Next came his helmet, catching and rolling for a moment on the hem of the wide cape billowing behind him like a curtain of blood, heavy and crimson.

He finally stopped before her, eyes roving over the angles of her face, her slender hands, before pinching them closed. The wound at her neck which he understood was the ultimate cause of death had been mended to appear as a series of creases, the only imperfection visible to his eye. The merest hint of rose graced each cheek bone to give her the appearance of restful slumber.

Though he had given up his mother's superstitious Ryukyuan religious beliefs along with any other ties to his youth when he left home at nineteen, never to return again after his love had been sold off to that fraud and imposter, Hamato Yoshi, he couldn't help but feel the presence of her mother and her grandmother standing over Karai. Casting him in silent judgment for not doing more to keep their daughter and granddaughter safe.

The women of the clans held the highest position in that old religion and he was to raise her to fulfill that destiny. She was to become leader, matriarch to the Foot Clan. He had failed her in his ignorance and pride; casting aside how he was raised, casting aside the gnawing at the edges of his mind that whispered he needed to groom her for her ascension.

Instead he took control where he was to merely hold the position until she was old enough to assume her rightful place as head of the clan. But he made her in his mind, unfit, weak, non-essential. Only now was he mired in regret. He felt the weight of his ancestors' stares pressing on his mind both inside and out.

He knelt and rested his forehead against the smooth paneled edge of the table. But how could he not take that responsibility from her? She was just a foolish girl at heart and not only that, if the information he'd received was even close to what his daughter had been engaging in these past six months or so, he would have been forced to bring her to this very end at his own hands. Despite the anguish, despite his duty to care for and guide her, to raise her up to fulfill her place within the clan. Even his ancestors should know he'd have no other choice.

She had been caught. Somewhere along the line, she had become careless and the Shredder had several incriminating photographs burned that proved the revolting rumor to be more than some grudge from within the ranks of Foot.

In fact, if it had been that simple, he could have rooted out the problem and disposed of it. Made the person a fine example of what happens to someone when they try to usurp their authority by undermining their honor and reputation. But it wasn't leaked as far as he could tell. This was more an urgent cry for him to intercede before the clan learned of the truth.

There would be no forgiveness for such deviant actions. For such dishonor.

Because while the front of his mind denied it could even be possible, he knew his daughter well. The photos were just more proof of what he already could not deny. Anything taboo or restricted seemed to draw her in, the more upsetting and devastating the consequences might be, all the more alluring and tantalizing.

And while he didn't want to believe she could stoop to such a depraved act of impropriety, the photos were only of her meeting in secret with the mutants on several occasions, he wouldn't put it past her. Something flickered through the back of his mind, a sense . . . a surety that he relied on through the long years of building an underground world-wide respected empire from the dust of his poverty-stricken youth. Of her guilt, he did not doubt.

But he was not without blame. If he had engaged her with the business of the more secretive pursuits and dangerous missions of the clan as opposed to tasking her with the mundane, the monotonous and the feeble ranks of men he'd assigned to her, then maybe she would not have sought out the unusual and forbidden. His gut twisted with the relief that it had not come to the truth becoming revealed to his clan. That she had fallen in some squirmish or battle that he was still missing the details of; only that her trusted second had gone missing and was most likely murdered, was the best possible outcome.

And there was another in her regiment that had gone missing as well. He could only think that in time, he would repay the death of his beloved daughter ten-fold to the one or ones responsible, though in the pit of his fathomless heart, he would remain ever grateful that she had been killed before her dishonor could be branded upon the memory of her life forever.

With the passing storm of regret and relief and anger passing, he stood. No tears had fallen from his glittering eyes. The anguish remained locked within his straining heart. He brush his fingertips once over the girl's forehead.

He had a flash of her when only four, running so impertinently into his meeting room, marching through the sea of assassins and spies and several government officials only to climb onto his lap to turn to gaze at each man, with a steady, haughty look, hands firmly planted on the table in front of them; as if fully expecting them to continue now that she was present.

They had paused, frozen in uncertainty and some amount of curiosity and fear, until Karai looked over her shoulder and gave her father that half-smile he secretly adored, the wry grin that had captured his heart with her mother. His laughter boomed through the room and at once everyone relaxed and joined in the easy moment.

A man to be feared and respected, the Shredder was raising a fierce and formidable daughter. She would have made a great successor.

Ah, but that had been before her rebelliousness had turned to poison between them. The gulf between father and daughter widened and became eventually the source of mutual frigid acceptance but nothing more. He became entrenched in his position at the lead of their clan, and in his own selfish manner, had kept it from her.

She never really knew what she was to be; her birthright;  _Onarigami:_ the spiritual superiority of women, only one such as she could bring the Foot Clan to its highest potential.

None of it mattered now. He had to carry on.

A sigh passed between his lips and he turned, stooping only to retrieve his metal garb, returning them in place with a cool snap. Her body would be cremated and her ashes would be interned within the small family shrine on the Ryukyuan Islands. The place of his mother's birth.

He had no doubt that yet another restless female spirit would haunt him all the days of his life.

* * *

The grass was warm and cool at the same time beneath his bare feet. It was strange, it should have been warm, but there was a lingering chill that drove into his bones. He shivered.

He was running swiftly, though he wanted to linger, and the thought made his stride slow. Ahead in the scrub of tangled branches and bushes, his brothers had already vanished as they cut through the park. He blinked in confusion. They had all just been together a moment ago. He had fallen behind as usual. It wasn't for the lack of speed or skill, but rather the simple enchantment that met his hungry eyes every which way they turned.

His brothers' impatient and irritated calls reached him, hushed but urgent. He let their voices blend into the background symphony of crickets and other night-time insects chiming in from every corner of the night. The hum of traffic in the streets beyond the park was the sound of a great giant in repose. In the center in that wide open space, he stalled and stopped.

Chest heaving, sweat sharp and chilly on his neck and arms. Eyes round with awe and discovery rose high to gaze into the inky blue-black gloaming. His breath caught and a bolt of fear made his spine go rigid. Twin chubby hands rose to cover his mouth. He would have dashed to his brothers had he the strength, but he was rooted to the spot.

From the shadows a hissed chorus of  _'Mikey. C'mon. You're right in the open.'_

But the fright he initially experienced melted away. A giggle burst from him. He laughed at himself for being so silly.

He tipped his head back and picked up his arms, a smile spreading from the 'o' of shock to happy recognition of the lights dancing around him, winking on and off in a delightful pattern of silent hide and seek. Fireflies. Not the stars falling as he initially thought. It was fireflies. Dozens and dozens of them, above and below and all around him; lighting up the dark field with unsynchronized whimsy.

Mikey was lost in his tender joy.

 _They really glow_ , he thought in amazement; just as he'd seen in the zoology book he borrowed from Don; the book being too simplistic and full of pictures for his liking, so he'd given it to Mikey to enjoy. Phosphorescent photons flared making the swirling dots linger in his vision until they turned to dark spots before fading completely.

It was beautiful. Magical. He stood in the center of the spectacle until Raphael appeared suddenly in front of him, angry for some reason he couldn't guess at.

"Look at the fireflies, Raphie."

"Didn't you hear us callin'?" Mikey still stared around him in wonder, only partially hearing his irritated brother's voice. Raph was always angry about something.

Mikey pointed as a firefly glowed just in front of the pair of them. Raph smacked his hand down. Mikey blinked at him, shocked, feeling the sting of the slap along with the lump in his throat.

"There's  _people_ ," he hissed and pointed.

Michelangelo started and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough a group of big people, teenagers he'd heard Leonardo name them, were laughing and talking in rough voices, stomping through the parking lot towards the end of the park that he and his brothers had cut through. Cigarettes dangled from lower lips lighting up like winking red eyes. Mikey never even heard them.

"C'mon, Dumb-o," Raph gripped him by the wrist and yanked him towards the cover of the bushes. Over his shoulder he added, "One day you're gonna be in a daze and they're gonna get you."

Mikey swallowed at the lump in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed that all the teens had the same face, a high forehead and thinning hair, short noses . . . a thrill of terror raced up his spine. They were smiling at him. They each had the same face and each expression held a twisted grin of knowing something he didn't.

They stood where he had a moment ago, in the center of the field. One of them held a pipe or something like a pipe, the end snapped and crackled with electricity. Pain shot through his middle and he nearly stumbled. He tightened his grip on Raphael's hand and was so glad that his older brother had taken him out of that field.

He couldn't believe that he'd gotten so distracted that he'd nearly been caught. He was so stupid! Master Splinter had warned him that the people wouldn't be nice if they caught him or his brothers. It would spell trouble with a capital 'T'.

A voice whispered through his mind, ' _We're_   _like the candy. M and M's_.'

He bit his bottom lip and felt like he was about to cry. He hoped that Raph wasn't going to tell on him.

Mikey looked down to find the ground littered with pools of something dark and inky. There was a funny smell, almost like metal. As he looked up, it wasn't the back of Raphael's head that he saw but a severed human's. It was smiling at him. From between swollen, blackened lips a river of blood poured out and streamed down Raphael's shell.

A ragged bubbling voice came from the gruesome face, "I saw what you did with him. You naughty boy. I watched you. You loved it. Every minute."

With a cry of fright, Mikey yanked his hand from his brother's grip. His feet caught and stumbled over something. He fell forward, scraping his knees hard against some half-hidden stones. He spun around to see what had tripped him.

His nunchucks dripping in gore, stuck up from the ground. He felt his stomach turn at the normally happy sight of his favorite weapons. He had just gotten them from Master Splinter, but now he didn't want to look at them for some reason.

The voice came again, "You got what you wanted. Right up the ass! You loved every minute. Every minute. I watched you squirm, you pig. You useless filthy whore." And then laughter rained down on him.

He covered his ears and rolled up into a fetal position. A confused mix of images flooded into his young mind. Struggling, pulling, thrashing, spinning, falling and then pain. So much pain crashing up through him from his bottom up into his body.

"Aaah! N-No!"

He bit his lip to keep from crying. But when a hand touched his shoulder he jumped and scrambled away.

Raph crouched; sighing in aggravation as Mikey's eyes darted about then quickly climbed to stand; brushing his scraped knee with one palm and trying to act as though it didn't hurt. His palm came away sticky with blood.

"I'm okay," he said with a wavering voice.

Raphael rolled his eyes. Leonardo and Donatello appeared behind him. Suddenly they were all much older than him. Tall and imposing. Mikey shrunk back until his shell hit a tree trunk. He flinched as more pain slid through him.

"I'm okay," he insisted with a slightly stronger note, the tears stinging his eyes, breath hitching in his throat. He didn't like the way they were looking at him. A blend of pity and disgust. His stomach turned and more images flooded his mind. He pinched his eyes closed only to have them snap open as Leonardo, said, "God, you're such an infant. As helpless as you are useless."

Mikey puffed up his chest, hands in fists now. Two hot tears spilled over his cheeks. His denial of Leo's cool assessment of him died on his tongue.

"We should have just left him," Donatello said and the other two nodded in agreement.

"Always gotta babysit ya," Raph added with a shake of his head. "Or ya end up in trouble."

"N-No. I'm okay . . . I'm okay. . .

**"I'm** **_OKAY_ ** **!"**

The roll of bandages jumped between Donatello's startled fingers as his brother violently and loudly emerged from the unreachable plane of his unconscious mind into reality.

Raphael was next to him in a second, holding him gently by the shoulders, murmuring wordless sounds to soothe him as he raised up onto his elbows. Mikey's eyes were wild and searching, but not seeing, not really. His jaw clenched and his fingers dragged against the fabric of the cot. He started to shake violently as his eyes continued to dart around the room. Behind Don, Master Splinter and Leonardo filed into the small space.

"He's awake! Mikey!"

"Take it easy. It's okay, bro! You're home!"

"My son, please, be at ease."

Mikey struggled and thrashed against Raphael's hands which had only held on more firmly the harder his little brother strained against him. He didn't want Mikey to fall off the table or get injured any more than he already was. Dimly Raph heard Donatello ordering everyone to give him space, but for the life of him, he could not make his fingers release his little brother. He needed to be reassured that his brother was okay, that he was here with them and not going to slip away from them while out and . . . die.

Mikey started to shout. His voice was high-pitched and raspy, not at all like his usual tone. "No! I'm okay! Let go 'a me! Let go!"

He slammed himself backwards into the wall next to the cot and brought a fist up. It connected to Raphael's face but he still did not release his little brother, even when his face snapped to one side from the impact. Raphael's heart sunk at the weak force of it.

"Mikey, you're home! No one's gonna hurt 'cha!"

Mikey's mouth pulled back into a twisted snarl, and just as he looked like he was about to lunge at Raphael's throat, Donatello shoved him back with a heave. Raph stumbled back, a look of hurt on his face.

"Give him some space," he ordered, each word punctuated with articulate cold fury.

Mikey was breathing hard behind him, short hitched breaths between gulping gasps. Donatello eyed them all before turning back to Mikey.

"Just breathe, little brother. In and out. Listen to me. In and out."

"Wha . . . Where? Where am I? Where's . . . What's happ-ppening?" his voice was quickly turning shrill.  _"What's happening!?"_

"Shh. In and out. One thing at a time. Just breathe right now. That's all you need to do. Just breathe."

Mikey slowly brought his darting gaze to Donatello's warm chocolate eyes. His mouth hanging open, he started to mimic Don's inhaling and exhaling.

Breathe. Just Breathe.

"That's right. In and out."

His jumbled mind locked on the simple words.

Just breathe.

Nothing else mattered.

Just Breathe.

He was home.

Just breathe.

Malcolm was gone.

Just breathe.

He was safe.

Breathe. He could do that. Breathing. He could manage that much.

But suddenly his breath caught in his throat as the stress and fear, the complete terror, the brutal starvation, the unrelenting cold, the humiliation and pain of his assaults piling one on top of another, as well as each of the long torturous sleepless nights and finally the utter despair of when he gave up, crashed through him.

Tears broke free and he slumped bonelessly forward, nearly toppling from the cot; but shoving aside Donatello, Raphael rushed to catch him. He started to sob and howl, shuddering in his brother's strong arms.

Raphael's voice, hoarse and thick with emotion repeated over and over, "I got 'cha, little bro. I got 'cha."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone sticking with this story and supporting me with all the kind words, the interesting thoughts and the messages! It means a lot to know what you guys are thinking and that you're enjoying this story just makes me so proud and excited! I'll tell ya, writing Malcolm should not be as much fun as it is, but his scenes just flow out of me and he never ceases to amaze/horrify me, lol


	22. Of Gods and Broken Things

_"The great advantage of living in a large family is that early lesson of life's essential unfairness."_  -Nancy Mitford

* * *

 

The long hours of crashing and pulling himself together only to crash once more wore Michelangelo down and it was late in the night when Donatello finally pulled Raphael away from his brother. The position Raph held him in was putting too much pressure on his tail. The bandages soaked through twice. Besides that, he needed the rest.

And Raphael's rough handling, though he meant well, was aggravating some of his other wounds as well. The bandages on his arm where he'd cut into himself turned pink and soon dark red, from Raphael's groping hands trying to hold and reassure; making Donatello's job more complicated than it needed to be. The tail, in particular, was problematic. He'd known all along that it needed to be removed, and his own reluctance to move into action was only giving the wound more time to infect.

Raphael sat in a chair near Mikey's head. He'd quiver with barely suppressed energy every time that Mikey would moan or shift.

If Raphael was the coiled spring, Leonardo was the still pool. He had entered with Master Splinter soon after Mikey awoke, hovering in the shadows near the door before finally coming forward to one side. Leo had remained near the cot, kneeling as if in supplication, just behind Splinter, one knee bent, arm resting on it and the other below him.

Donatello wondered how he managed to remain in such an uncomfortable position for so long. He neither touched Michelangelo nor did he speak. He only knelt there, with the expression of deep regret and something like grief over his face. Donatello sighed in irritation at the display. Leonardo was never good at this. Whenever one of them were injured, he did something similar; keeping a pointless vigil that did no good for any of them.

What was the use of a ghost in the room?

He had not the luxury of being the one to offer his youngest brother comfort nor supplication, he could only busy himself with the physical care of tending Mikey's wounds, fetching painkillers, changing the IV bag and occasionally halting any attempt at conversation that Raphael started to keep from giving Michelangelo another panic attack. The stubbornness of his younger brother to continue asking about what had happened to Mikey only served to frustrate and drive Donatello to nearly order Raph from the room.

Luckily, Michelangelo was never quite so coherent as to understand that he was being spoken to. Whatever that soldier had done to his brother, whatever drugs had been introduced into his system were still lingering. Aside from the initial clarity he seemed to have when he first awoke, Mikey had since drifted. It was for the best.

Master Splinter remained at the foot of the cot, mournfully watching, massaging his hands, wringing the fabric of his robe with nervous fingers. Wishing there was more he could do for his son, but fearing to make matters worse. He had initially moved to stroke the top of Mikey's foot and his son had jumped so violently, he knocked the iv pole over. After that, Splinter kept his hands to himself, concerned over the reaction, but saying nothing. Donatello had reassured him, telling him that to rub the frostbitten areas was not a good idea. It could further aggravate the condition.

Michelangelo dozed fitfully.

Master Splinter studied his boy's face. There were deep pockets of dark purple under his eyes and the bruising and swelling on his face remained as testament to some of his suffering. His heart pinched as a flicker of distress came and went on Mikey's face. He looked haggard, exhausted. But while sleeping, he remained his youngest boy. His child. His features were soft and angelic to his father's eyes. And Splinter could not fathom how anyone in all the world would want to hurt one so tender and gentle.

His sorrow morphed into anger as he dropped his gaze to where Leonardo knelt.

He could not help but feel the familiar surge of infuriation directed at his eldest student. He knew that Leonardo had tried his best to locate Michelangelo. He wanted to believe in his son that he spared no time wasting on other pursuits but doubt nagged him. Irrational and unfair, he knew. But he directed his helplessness and his pain towards the other member of their clan who was supposed to aid him in looking out for the most vulnerable of their family.

Leonardo had to keep his sons safe. It was not a complicated matter. He was to watch them when topside. How many years of training and preparation had Splinter spent drilling that simple concept into his student's mind?  _Keep them safe, Leonardo. Keep them safe for me._ And he'd failed. He'd failed his brother, his family. He'd failed him in the most terrible way. He did not keep his boy from harm. He allowed him to be stolen away, abused and nearly killed.

His mind continued to circle back to the fact that Karai's man had taken Michelangelo and Leonardo had known they were being followed and did nothing.

Karai. Leonardo's foolish feelings for her had caused him nothing but misery from the start. She'd been an obvious distraction and more than once he'd chastised Leonardo for behaving so weakly. Never coming out and saying that he understood exactly what Leonardo was distracted with, he didn't need to, his son knew what he was inferring. 

Splinter huffed. And the promises he'd given. His continued pledges of loyalty and focus on the clan, their family. Splinter sniffed in derision.

He could not help but feel some, if not all blame, lay on Leonardo's shoulders. Hours ago, he'd tried to tell him that she aided them. As if Leonardo had felt appreciative of the wretch, when it was her doing and no doubt, her orders to have Michelangelo captured. Just the recollection of his son sitting across from him at their family table explaining how she had  _helped_ , how she had sacrificed herself for them like someone to be honored, turned his stomach. He ground his teeth.

And he'd not even brought justice to the man responsible. Failure upon failure. A reflection of his own inability to train a son worthy to take his position as head of their small clan. For if the son is a failure, he is not but a mirror image of the man who raised him?

Leonardo's inadequacy shamed him. And he could not look upon his son with any honor or respect as long as Michelangelo's abuser remained free.

As if sensing his dark thoughts, Leonardo turned haunted eyes up to catch his gaze before swiftly dropping them away. Singed by the intensive light within Splinter's hard scrutiny. He shrank upon himself and trembled. And Master Splinter felt his fury seething.

In a low voice he murmured, "I thought you vowed to capture the man responsible."

Leonardo's head snapped up. Eyes wide, hopeful and wary. "Hai, Sensei."

"Then why are you still here?" he bit the question out. It was bitter and sharp and the message was clear. You are not welcome here until you bring my child justice. You are not worthy to be in your brother's presence after it was your fault that he was taken, abused and nearly killed.

Leonardo stared but for a second longer before he stood and dropping his head, turned and left without another sound; though his mind shouted his feeble apologies; pleading for some forgiveness. Some small amount of mercy; though he knew he deserved none of it.

But he could not speak, even if he'd wanted to. There was nothing his father wanted to hear from him. Not until this soldier who had so grievously harmed one of their own was brought to justice. So he left room as quickly as he could. Fleeing from the storm of his father's fury and disappointment. Fleeing from the proof of his failures laid out in the form of his little brother, beaten, terrorized and disfigured. Fleeing from the consequences of his failure; his lack of perfection. But the shadows of his deficiency as a leader, as a brother, as a son, followed him; clawing at his shell; the back of his throat; raking his heart until it bled in ribbons even as it galloped.

Raphael watched him go from over his shoulder. Leonardo's guilt was an oppressive weight in the room and when he exited it went with him. He exhaled from between gritted teeth. And though he held his accusations of his brother's shortcomings and blamed him for not doing better for Mikey while he was missing; expecting their  _leader_  to have more of a solid plan than circling the same locations over and over; canvasing dead ends, looking for clues buried in feet of snow, he felt the sting of his own blame in this situation.

For to Raphael, it was plain. Leonardo had made the mistake of thinking he could manage to have a life on the side of his duty. Raphael did not hold that against him. But he was wrong for trying. Like it or not, he was their leader. It was his lot in life. Assigned to him by a force greater than any of them: Father. And whether or not it sucked was besides the point.

Raph, too, had a simple role assigned. And he'd accepted it, more or less. Soldier. Protector. Body guard. Big brother to one. Leonardo had ordered him to escort Mikey home. And true to form, he did nothing but defy his older brother, just as he'd done at every turn; mocking and disrespecting his position with his defiance and bull-headedness. Because he could accept his assigned role in life when it came from their father. When it was brother that tried to enforce it, he could do nothing but resist.

Leonardo would always, ever, be his brother. He was not his owner. He did not possess the right of control over him. He would do his job. He would protect and he would fight. But when he could he would resist and defy the fact that he was somehow beneath Leonardo. But of course, in this particular instance, it had been a terrible mistake.

For if he'd have stayed, if he'd had just listened instead of being an asshole to Leonardo, none of this would have happened.

And wasn't it the truth about his involvement with Karai? For while he honestly did not think that Leonardo still held any current feelings for the woman, he secretly relished having what his perfect older brother had pinned for but never gained. It was one thing that he'd truly bested Leo in. At long last. She'd offered and he took; with both hands; hungry to possess what his brother never could have but desperately had wanted at one point.

He thought he'd won. That he had finally been given the opportunity to be placed above his brother. He thought she had fallen for him, he huffed in disgust. Only now was it clear. He'd been a selfish prick, but also a big damn fool.

She had used him. Played him like the mindless instrument everyone saw him as. It was all he'd ever amount to; be it violence or not, it wasn't what was inside of him that was any good, any use, anything at all that anyone would ever want.

He was only the brute. The physical wall. The protector. The shield made of flesh and bone. It was his assigned role given by an authority he could not defy, no matter how unfair in the depths of his heart he felt it. He understood this now. Accepted it.

And he finally understood that it wasn't Leonardo trying to control him to be better than him, he was only following through with his position in life. He had to lead them. There was nothing else for him, he had nothing else to cling to, but to order and expect compliance. He was just as helpless against his role as Raphael was; and Raphael finally realized, like him, Leonardo had no other choice. They had to accept it. Just as he accepted his part in all of this nightmare. He was willing to face it like a man and embrace whatever was coming.

He turned his back to his brother's fleeing form; the long shadow diminishing in his wake, trailing after him; fingering the edge of the cot with useless fingers, callous and barely feeling the material beneath, for years of battles and training had taken its toll with nerve damage. He just wanted to take Mikey's pain from him. If there was a way to do it, no matter the cost, he would. He would set himself on fire if it meant taking this all away. He would burn for him. Because the kid didn't deserve this.

Tears stung the back of his eyes and he rubbed them away roughly with one finger and his thumb. His breath hitched and he cursed himself for being such a damn baby. But he was angry and useless and frightened.

If this was the way god was punishing him, then god could go to hell. Because this wasn't fair. And he didn't want to believe in something that would allow someone so good to pay for someone else's sins. He'd tried to pray, while he was helping Donatello clean and wrap his brother's burns and wounds, but it only made him frustrated and left him feeling more lost than ever.

Master Splinter never really taught them any sort of religion. He was spiritual but not religious in any sort of way. If there was a higher authority it began and ended with Splinter. It was simple. Direct. It had left a hole inside of Raphael. A missing piece that he never understood was really missing until moments like this.

He hated feeling helpless and needed to turn to someone . . . someone for guidance and help. His big brother had failed him. His father sat across from him looking, if anything, even more lost and impotent than he felt.

If your god is broken, where is there left to turn? A tremor went through him. Raphael never felt more alone than he did at that moment. Despair welled from the pool of that hole inside of him. And it was thick. It was smothering.

And just then, Mikey opened his eyes.

He'd been dozing; falling asleep in the middle of people speaking, drifting off and surfacing with a shuddering jolt. Up and down for the past few hours. Sometimes with a shout, sometimes a grunt or a sigh. But never completely aware, never completely there. Always in between a nightmare and reality, slipping between the cracks, sliding back and forth through the narrow passages that link one world to the other. But now he was awake and clarity rang painfully throughout his mind.

He reached out and with his bandaged fingertips, he brushed Raphael's hand, then wrapped his fingers over the scared flesh, gripping it tightly.

Raph sat up immediately. The feel of his brother's bandaged hand on top of his grounded him. Centered him. Saved him.

"You're awake!"

Mikey held his hand for a moment longer, and felt his brother, his strong, solid, brutal brother tremble like a leaf beneath his touch. He wanted to hold on, like the dream. To have Raphael lead him out of the open, dangerous field into the forest where they could hide, but as he felt Raphael's opposite hand descend on top of his he had to pull away. He did not like the confinement, even if it was just his hand. If his brother was hurt that he pulled away, he couldn't tell, for he swept his eyes away.

He fidgeted where he lay and Splinter was next to him, adjusting pillows and blankets, doing everything in his limited power to try and offer comfort, only unwittingly adding to Michelangelo's distress. He wasn't causing him pain as much as making him feel awkward and tense. It took everything he had in him not to shout for Splinter to back off. He knew his father was trying to help. But he didn't want him so close. Not so close to him.

He couldn't breathe right with the scent of his father clawing at his senses. He smelled of tea leaves and light musk, of candle wax and exotic spices. He smelled of all the good things in the world. The happy memories of a warm, safe childhood. The bright reflections of someone he was once; secure and content. And it hurt him. Inside. Outside. His mind felt too full. His heart too small. He was being crushed by invisible pressure and Splinter being close amplified it, charged it and smothered him with it. It was shoving at him, pulling, dragging; forcing him deeper into the corner of the cot and the wall.

His natural instincts for self-preservation, sharpened from the long torturous hours of helplessness and pain, pooled within him and from the deep center of that primordial refuge, he drew anger. He slid it free like a buried saber of razor light, dragged it out from the grip of a heavy obsidian boulder that made up his center. He wanted to twist it and flay his spirit free from his body.

Because he was suffocating. Because he couldn't breathe. Because he needed a little space right now.

" _Please_ ," Mikey said and there was a bite to the tone. An edge that never knew his voice before. A stranger in the room between them. Spoken from between gritted teeth, bared just a little more than was necessary.

Splinter pulled back. He sensed his son's deep distress but knew not the exact source, even if he did the confusion of him being the cause would have made comprehension of it impossible regardless.

Raphael seems oblivious to the shift in the air, so happy he was that Michelangelo had finally surfaced completely, but Master Splinter's concern deepened. He knew his child has suffered and in the in-between moments of his resting and waking, Donatello informed him in low murmurs the extent of the damage that had been done.

* * *

Two hours ago he had taken Master Splinter from the room to speak to him. Filling him in with a calm, even tone. Detached. As always. Removed from them all, the way only his intelligent son was capable of; walling his true feelings away; protecting them and guarding them under the guise of clinical professionalism.

But there were always moments that Splinter caught his true self emerging, like the curious child he'd once been, peeking at him with keen eyes, watching him as he repaired the battered equipment that their lair depended on. Rare and fleeting, but real, nonetheless.

The child had not been lost to the scientist. The innocent had not been consumed by the cold sea of logic and truth. In those moments, Splinter felt a terrible urge to take Donatello up in his arms, to hold him and reassure him that it was okay to feel. It was okay to hurt and live. That enduring was not the same as thriving.

But Splinter now, as then in those rare moments, could only stand, numb and helpless before Donatello's cool detachment and objectivity, listening attentively. He could at least give his son that. His complete attention. If his son spoke to him, he would listen. Even that was a rarity. But he would try and show his son that he was listening. That he was there, always, to hear him.

But over the years, his son had begun to come to him less and less. Turning away for answers to his questions; finding the key not in what Splinter may have to offer, but rather, in the piercing light of technology. Cold and terrible. But factual. Always factual.

They had come to the point of Michelangelo's tail. He paused, looking uncomfortable.

"The attacker had tried to sever it from his body for some reason. Most likely . . . torture." The last word caught in his throat.

Splinter blanched beneath his fur but steadied himself. "But you must be able to salvage it. It is a crucial part of his physiology."

Donatello pressed his lips together in a grim line. The words came from him as if hurting him to say them, "I am not skilled enough. I have no equipment that could handle such a delicate procedure and even if I did . . . Master," he sighed and turned his gaze away just as Splinter detected the cracks appearing in his son's carefully constructed walls that he hid himself behind, "he may end up losing it due to infection anyway. There's no good choice here. There's just what needs to be done."

And when he looked again at Splinter, he was a child, with wide fear-filled eyes. The change was dramatic and Splinter felt his ears flatten. He hadn't seen his son so vulnerable and open in so long that he could not even recall. Years upon years. It terrified him. Because he knew then.

There was more. More horrors to hear.

"Sensei," he said in a small voice, "I-I think . . . there may be something else. I cannot be certain. Not without confirming it with him." He seemed to be at war with himself. A brother more than a physician. A denial against the facts. But with Donatello, eventually all things came down to the facts. "But there is evidence. Some evidence. No. Strong . . . Strong evidence. Th-That there was some . . . assault upon him."

Splinter blinked twice in rapid succession. The words struck him but would not absorb into his thoughts correctly. They seemed to hit him and fall away like rain rolling off his shoulders and face.

"Assault?" He heard the question in his ears but felt the answer in his soul.

Donatello's face crushed into an anguished look as he dropped his head and shook it. He took a shuddering breath in and held it for a moment before exhaling. When he lifted his face, he was calmer. Stoic. The child was gone. Perhaps never to surface again.

It only served to frighten Splinter more.

"Yes. I fear he was molested. P-Possibly . . ." he shook his head as the words failed him.

Yes. He understood what Donatello was getting at. Michelangelo had evidence of being sexually assaulted. The worst thing aside from his death.

He'd been raped. His son. His precious sunshine boy. Defiled. A father's nightmare for his child. Splinter was nodding. He couldn't stop. He just continued to bob his head like an automaton. Finally, he reached out a trembling paw to grip his son's thin shoulder. He squeezed it and gave him a pat.

"Let us withhold our assumptions until he . . . can tell us. If he so wishes."

"Okay. Yes. That's probably for the best," Donatello responded quickly, almost eager to have a way to avoid this terrible knowledge. To deny its actuality. To leave it to Michelangelo to confirm their worst fears so they did not have to. It was easier this way. Possibly cowardly. But it was also logical.

It made sense not to jump to conclusions when you did not have all the data. It would be irresponsible. Michelangelo would tell them. Then, he could plan and decide what else to do for him. Though at the moment, he was at a complete loss as to what, if anything, he'd be able to offer Michelangelo if his greatest fear was confirmed and he learned that his childlike, innocent brother had indeed been raped.

* * *

Splinter took another step away from the cot. His heart was in his throat.

The memory of his conversation with Donatello fresh and gaping in his mind; oozing with the reality that was confirmed in Michelangelo's fearful, haunted, overly bright eyes. The tense way he held himself. The way he'd jumped when his foot had been touched.

The sudden distance between him and his child was nearly too much for him to bear. The warmth that usually poured from his boy, the welcoming need to have Splinter close to him, was gone. The absence of the light of that love and innocent dependency was like a blow and Splinter fell into the chair that Raphael had just vacated. Fear gripped him.

And Splinter understood despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you noticed an underlying theme within this chapter, it was due to a morose sort of gloom that had descended upon me while writing. I wanted some fierce, defiant quotes about turning your back on god or something about having god's grace and light no longer shining upon you, being bereft of that, of loosing that . . . but alas, I only found the upbeat, positive, and hopeful, and also the chastisement of being human and having such a moment of weakness; which served only to make me angrier, and deepen my black mood, I'm afraid.
> 
> Who feels more lost than those who have suffered, been oppressed or turned away either forcibly or by their own will, searching for answers? In that moment there is no hope, there is no optimism, there is desolation and that's what I was searching for. Not as a testament to endure, but rather to capture a brittle, brutal moment of crying out in weakness. The broken emptiness when you've realized this is as good as it's going to get, that moment on the precipice - before you choose to make it better.
> 
> If that is your choice at all.


	23. Losing Him

' _What am I? Like a breaking bell_

_ringing like a sigh._

_What am I doing here?_

_What am I?_

_Somebody save me._

_It's just too much pain.'_ **–** _Save Me_ , Ryan Adams

* * *

 

Raphael knelt next to the cot. He'd let his little brother down by not staying close and he'd be damned if he was going to let him out of his sight again, at least, not for a very long time. He reached out and took Mikey's hand back into his, ignoring the way that his brother flinched at the contact, despite staring intensely into his face; needing the contact to remind him that Mikey was home; finally safe. No matter what had happened to him, he'd help his brother get past it and heal. It was all he could offer him after letting him down and not protecting him better. After losing him like that. Losing him to the world where only pain and hatred existed. The unfeeling world that only brought harm.

He wanted revenge. It burned clear and bright in the back of his mind that Mikey's captor was still on the loose, but that could wait. Besides, wasn't there a saying about revenge is a best dish served cold? For now, he just wanted to stay close to Mikey.

He'd turned his back on his little brother and nearly the worst thing had happened. He would not allow it to happen again. Never again.

"You need anythin'? You thirsty?" Without waiting for an answer, Raphael twisted and brought up a water bottle; pressing it close to his mouth.

The sight of the thing had Mikey's heart suddenly pounding and a memory of poisoned water and what happens when you drink that water rushed through him. Mikey jerked and shook his head; slapping the bottle away.

_"No!"_

Raph lurched back, releasing his hand and then set the water down on the floor. "Okay, okay. No water. It was stupid of me to ask. You've got that iv filling ya up. Sorry," he muttered.

Mikey sat trembling and said nothing. What could he say? That he was afraid of a plastic bottle?

He blinked and stared hard at his hands. From the corner of his eye the world tilted. Was the room spinning? He knew his brothers would not hurt him. Of course not. But he didn't want to look at it. He didn't want it near him. For days he'd been so thirsty, dreaming of pouring water down his parched throat, of swimming in a river and drinking his fill, of stacks and stacks of pure bottled water all waiting for him; now the idea of water in a bottle made his skin crawl.

He cleared his throat; shifted. His body hurt, especially his bottom, raw and sore on the inside and out. He knew that Don would want to keep him in the lab to heal, but he wished he was in his room. Alone. Where he could bury himself under his blankets and hide. Hide from the memories stalking the edges of his mind, vivid, leering at him like a predatory beast, threatening and terrifying. He wanted to hide. The urge to get up and scurry from the lab hit him like a monstrous itch that he needed to scratch.

He made to move and Raphael quickly matched his movements and eased him back. A tremor went through him at his brother's rough hands; despite being gentle, as gentle as Raph could be, it felt like he was restraining him. Mikey shook his head and clenched his teeth. It was nearly unbearable.

"No way, Bud. You gotta stay put and take it easy."

"I-I wanna . . . go. In my room. I want my room."

It felt like it had been years since he was back inside the safety of his room. A wave of homesickness made him ache despite sitting in Donatello's lab. If they would just back up and let him breathe a little, if they would just not touch him so much. Raph needed to let go of him. Now.

Waves of irritation were crashing against the back of his throbbing skull. He grimaced and shifted further away from Raphael, closer to the wall, but his stubborn brother continued to pat and touch him. He couldn't take much more. He was going to scream.

Raphael's eyes were huge as he gazed down at him. He licked his lips and Mikey watched the thick red tongue sweep across his brother's bottom lip. A bolt of fear went through him. A low growl started from the base of his throat before he even knew what was happening to him. He narrowed his eyes.

 _"Get away from me_ ," he said in a snarling voice that was laced with shrill panic.

Raphael immediately raised his hands and backed off. His eyes searched Mikey's face with open hurt and confusion but he didn't argue.

"I-I didn't mean to . . . Whatever you need." He sat back on his heels.

The relief swept through Mikey but he still felt irritated and cornered. He just needed a little space. It was hard to breathe. He didn't want Raph to touch him. He was too strong. Too big. And Michelangelo felt small and weak. Afraid. So afraid. Mikey shuddered and pulled the blanket up over his chest.

He glanced up and Raphael's face held such a defeated, uncomprehending expression, Mikey struggled with wanting to lash out and wanting to reach out and apologize to him. He didn't want his brother to look like that, not over him. Beneath the remorse, fear and even the anger, however, was a shadow. A curl of satisfaction. A ripple of wicked vindication. There was a part of him that needed to turn his hurt into a weapon; to punish them for taking so long to find him.

_Why did they wait so long?_

He turned his head and stared at the scratched surface of the brick wall next to him. Suddenly, he couldn't look at Raphael any more. His fingers played with the edge of the blanket. He realized then that what he was feeling was a roiling surge of resentment along with the bleak anger. It was as solid and real as the wall he stared at. Just as scarred and pock-marked. If he concentrated on any of their faces for too long, the fury welled up and wanted to drown him.

It wasn't their fault. He knew this. If he'd been stronger, none of this would have happened. If he'd been smarter. Quicker. But still, why did it take so long for them to rescue him? Suddenly he was unsure.

"How long was I gone?" he asked and his voice remained alien and strange. It had been days, he was thinking back, trying to count, but the events were skewed in his mind, distorted from hours of being drugged, hours of no sleep. He just didn't know. If he thought about it, and he didn't want to, it seemed as though it had to be at least a week . . . maybe longer.

Raphael dropped his head, shooting a glance at Master Splinter for some help, but found his father adrift in the unfathomable reaches of his mind; eyes distant and glazed. He was on his own here. Raphael cleared his throat. He counted back.

He choked out the answer, "Four days."

Michelangelo made a soft sound, then sniffed, "That's all?" Four days. Four. Not seven. Not six. Not a week at all. How was that even possible? How could Malcolm have hurt him so much in such a short amount of time? It couldn't be right. It couldn't.

Raphael watched him but could only make out the side of his brother's face as he continued to stare at the bricks. Guilt wrapped steel bands across his chest.

"W-We was lookin' for ya, every day. Every minute, we . . . we didn't . . . the snowstorm came in and the tracks got covered. But we weren't gonna stop until we found you."

He considered Raphael's words and then remembered who had actually come to his aid when he was sure that he was about to die. After Malcolm had tried unsuccessfully to chop off his tail with the scissors. When he'd cut through and he felt the blade strike bone, making him shriek in agony. The electric pain that made him want to die. Then Malcolm left him and he was ready to die; was pleading for the mercy of it; there'd been too much pain. He was done. He wanted it to be over.

In the minutes of silence as he lay shaking, lost in the blinding world of crippling agony, he'd given up. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he would never step out of that pit again. He'd never see his family and friends again. He'd never feel the sunlight on his face.

When he was just a kid, before he understood what he and his brothers were, before he could grasp that the world would hate him for something he had no control over whatsoever, he'd dreamt of meeting a girl. He dreamt of his first kiss. Like in the movies he'd seen. The black and white comedies that played on the fuzzy thirteen inch screen of the television set they'd owned.

He had a moment in that pit, chained and burning from the inside out from shame and horror, despair and impotent rage, when he realized that Malcolm had taken that from him as well. He would never kiss a girl. His first kiss would forever be with his lips crushed against his abuser's mouth. He was going to die broken and used. With nightmares in place of sweet memories of first experiences.

And then she had come out of the darkness. Like a dark-haired angel.

He thought he was hallucinating at first. Though when he recognized her, he thought she was going to finish him where the other soldier had not. He'd accept it. He wouldn't fight her. But then . . . miracle of all, she spoke to him; her soft words of comfort buffeted against his battered body and sought out his terrorized mind, locked away in his pain; her softer hands carefully attending his searing agony and making it better.

She protected him. She was so strong and courageous. Like a warrior princess. She fought the monster. Defeated him, or so he'd thought.

And then . . . her soft body caught him and held him as he collapsed, finally, finally freed of the chains around his throat. All the softness in the world was there in her. All the comfort that he thought he'd never feel again. He wanted to wrap himself in her and hide. Forever.

If he understood what it was he felt in that moment; if he had the comprehension of what he'd been excluded from ever having without realizing how very much it was missing; he would have named it:  _Mother_. And just as quickly, it was taken from him. The comfort; the security. The warmth of her gentle protection. Stolen. Because monsters don't stay dead for long. Monsters rise.

He had to know. He didn't want to. A part of him remembered. The spray. The hideous beauty of the arc of color; so bright; so very vivid in the gloom. The heat of it as it spattered across his face and chest. He knew. But he needed to hear it.

"And Karai?"

Raph stiffened. Blinking rapidly, he dropped his gaze to his fingers, playing at the edge of the cot. He moved his hands to his thighs and rubbed them roughly. The raw grief cut him so sharply, he had to catch his breath. He trembled and pulled himself together. It didn't matter. His ache meant nothing compared to what his little brother had endured. It was no time to wallow or feel any sort of self-pity.

In fact, any suffering he'd experience was just a little down payment on what he owed Mikey after not protecting him better. All he had to do was walk the kid home. All he had to do was listen to Leo for once in his damn life. This. All of this was on him. If Karai's death was part of the price he had to endure for his failure, he would face it. He swallowed roughly and nodded, then shook his head.

"She, uh, she didn't make it."

Mikey's head knocked against the wall and he made a strangled hiccupping sound. Raph started at his brother's reaction. He leaned forward and reached out to him. Michelangelo flinched violently and shuddered.

 _"Don't!"_   he barked. "Don't fucking touch me, okay!?"

"Bro," Raph pleaded and he wasn't sure what he was asking of his brother. He didn't know what to expect. He couldn't imagine what Mikey had been put through these past days, but he wished with all his heart he could have taken his place. He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say so he just fell back onto his heels and glanced at Master Splinter again.

He gazed back at Raphael with a mournful look and gave a slight shake of his head. Donatello reentered the room carrying a plastic bin full of medical supplies. Suddenly relieved at the distraction, Raphael stood up and moved to give him access to Mikey's cot without needing to be asked. They had done this routine off and on for the past few hours. But Donatello didn't need to change bandages or give tetanus shots; he didn't need to remove the iv from Mikey's arm. He stopped next to the cot and Mikey slowly turned his tearful eyes to look up at him.

He glanced down at his brother, ignoring Raphael and Splinter, he took a breath, then seemed to gather his strength. "Michelangelo. I have to talk to you about something."

 _What now?_ he thought, distraught and grief-stricken at hearing Karai, his rescuer, had died trying to save him. He didn't deserve it. Karai should have just turned around and left him there. Or better yet, she should have put him out of his misery.

Why had he even fought with that Foot soldier? He was such an idiot. His nightmare could have been over with.

"Did you hear me?"

Don's voice snapped him back to reality. Mikey's eyes bounced around, flitting from sibling to father, then back to this fingers, anxiously picking at the bandages wound around his hands and wrists. He nodded.

They would want to know what happened to him, if they hadn't already guessed while they prodded at his body while he was unconscious. He braced himself, thoughts racing, determined to say nothing more than what they needed. Feeling the fright being matched only by the growing irrational anger within him at them all. His head pounded and his body felt like it was hit by a train and then run over by several trucks. The news of Karai had the effect of acid washing over his wounds.

He simply felt raw and exposed. Angry and exhausted. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone?

"Your tail has been damaged. Badly."

"My tail," Michelangelo repeated, partially in a daze.

He ducked his head and shifted his legs, wincing a little. The throbbing had been terrible until the pain killers that Raphael had given him dispensed by Donatello had kicked in. Now it was more of a distant ache. A faint reminder that the pain was waiting to return, just as awful as before; maybe worse. Like the terrible images stalking around the edges of his mind, the pain was there, too, pacing with impatience to sink its razor talons and jagged fangs back inside of him.

He didn't want to think about his tail or what had been done to it. He didn't want Donatello discussing the condition it was in. He just wanted it to stop hurting so much. Then he wanted to go into his room and have everyone just leave him alone.

"I need to amputate the appendage."

The words fell like miniature bombs into his desolate mind. He didn't move. He didn't blink. Don stared at him. Mikey stared into the space in front of him. Reeling and lost.

Raphael looked to Splinter, mouth hanging open, but Splinter's gaze was locked on the floor. There was no support for him. Immediately, he felt for Mikey and what must be going through his little brother's head. If he was frightened or just confused. Raphael smacked Don's leg.

"I don't think he understands. For  _Chrissake_ , Don, just, can you speak English?"

Splinter leaned back in his seat. He ran his hand over his eyes and dragged it down his snout. Then he turned a weary expression towards his battered child as Mikey shifted and seemed to come back to them. He shook his head slightly. He made a breathy chuckle that had Raph's frowning face snapping towards him. Donatello's stance stiffened.

"N-No. I get it. Gotta f-finish the job . . ." He blanched and pinched his eyes closed. It was so ridiculous. It was almost funny. Almost. He took in a breath and blew it out, hard, then tipped his head to one side a little. The strained sound of his attempt at laughter came again, making Raph and Don exchange worried glances. "I'm gonna be Stubby, huh? You know," he looked around with a hint of manic humor in his glassy eyes. "Just call me Stubby . . . like the cartoon. Th-The cartoon. Remember that one?"

Raphael looked at him like he'd gone crazy then cast another nervous glance in Donatello's direction who was now staring at Michelangelo with a detached expression of pity. Mikey swallowed and pinched his face, fidgeting impatiently under collective scrutiny. Their sympathy choked him with invisible hands. It was almost as bad as them touching him.

He could read their thoughts clearly on their faces, imagining their voices in his mind:  _Poor Mikey, always such a little weakling. Now he'll be even less than a man. I agree, Raphael. Oh well, it's for the best. He'd never have a chance with a girl, now. He's broken. Used. Garbage._

He felt his chest getting tight again and the familiar suffocating sensation returned, stronger than ever. The ugly voices in his head continued to tear into him; tormenting him. He writhed where he sat and grimaced; wishing they'd back off and just leave him alone.

"Well," he snapped suddenly with a shrug, making them each jump in turn. "I don't care. Cut it off if you have to." Then to their shock and dismay, he added with a leering, twisted look that was not like their little brother and son at all, "It's not like some chick's ever gonna be down there stroking it while I get off. So, what's the point in even having one?"

There was a beat of chilled silence.

"Michelangelo," Splinter breathed and Raphael sat back, speechless and feeling ill.

Anger flaring, he looked around, glaring. "Am I wrong?" he asked aggressively, chest heaving. "Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong!" he shouted, baring his fang. "Who's gonna want me-" he almost said  _now_ , but the word lodged in the back of his throat.

He wouldn't tell them what happened. Not if they didn't guess already and if they asked him, he would deny it. There was no way in hell he would let them know just how badly he had shamed them all. Just how weak he'd been. That Malcolm had raped him, had molested him in the tub and how he'd . . . responded, and then, worst of all, how he'd assaulted him with his babies. That he'd laid there all night with one of his nunchaku rammed up his ass, helpless, sobbing, unable to move, every breath he'd taken sending an agonized shooting pain through him. The memory had a high-pitched whine break from between his gritted teeth.

He dropped his forehead into one hand. His shoulders bounced and he choked; biting back the sob but unable to stop it completely.

Splinter blinked, unable to speak any further, sensing his child's emotional fragility but unable to think of any way to soothe him. Feeling helpless and overwhelmed by the situation. Feeling like he was losing him. His baby. Wanting only to fix this for his child, somehow. Wanting the man responsible dead. Feeling his fury turn towards his eldest son's failure, again. His failure to protect Michelangelo. His failure to bring the one responsible to justice.

Splinter stood up and began to pace. His claws opened and closed. Agitation and fury, impotent and poisonous, raced through his veins. Leonardo could not fail them again. He would make his student understand what his actions had cost this family.

Raphael couldn't close his mouth, he could only sit there on his heels, staring. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father pacing. Their master's rage was like a physical presence in the room.

Donatello lifted his chin. Michelangelo was angry with him. It was to be expected. Don understood that the family held him and his abilities up to an unfair and unattainable height. He was not a miracle worker. He was a self-taught engineer tasked with rebuilding shattered bones, mending sliced arteries and healing battered musculature. He'd done his best over the years with what he could. Sometimes even he was surprised that he hadn't misdiagnosed one of them or mistakenly given one of them an overdose at one point. Understanding medicine and medical knowledge just enough to be dangerous, it truly was amazing that all of them were still in one piece.

He could understand his brother's anger. He forgave him, for he, himself, was disappointed that there was no better alternative that he could offer. The answer to this particular problem was not a satisfactory one. Failures upon failures. But he could not afford to wallow in self-pity. There was work to be done before infection set in.

He pointedly ignored Mikey's outburst even as he felt the effects on Raph and Master Splinter around him. He needed to remain strong and stoic for his brother. He needed to be clinical and objective. Calmly, he explained, "If I thought I could save the appendage, I would. But I'm afraid that-" He moved to continue when Michelangelo cut him off.

"J-Just get it over with before it starts hurting again, okay? I don't need it, I don't want it."

"Yes, Mikey-" Don started. Mikey jerked and went rigid.

_We're like the candy. M and M's. Mikey and Mal. Mikey._

"Don't call me that!" he shouted in a shrill voice and everyone froze. "Never call me that again!"

His shoulders were tensed, up near his head. His wide eyes were encircled with dark shadows making them look huge in his face. He hated that the sound of his childhood nickname brought the image of Malcolm's face sharply into focus in his mind, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to forget that any of that had happened to him. It was the only way he'd be able to deal with this. All of this. There was so much. Too much. His chest was heaving and he had to calm his breathing; fingers kneading the edge of the blanket until it was bunched in his clammy fists.

God, he wished they would just go away. He needed to breathe. It was so hard to breathe. But he had to make this clear.

"I-It's Mike or Michelangelo."

He gave each of them a pointed look before he fell back, panting, exhausted from the exertion and the feelings of fear and rage that were storming through him. He sank deeper into the shallow mattress beneath him. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about his brother about to further mangle his abused body and the unfairness of the world. The sick injustice of life.

"Of course, Michelangelo," Splinter murmured as he stopped pacing and moved to usher Raphael from the room so Donatello could begin. Raphael continued to look a mix of confusion and horror. He was the picture of distress as he climbed to his feet and stood on wobbling legs, but did not fight as his father escorted him from the room. He glanced over his shoulder as Donatello quietly prepared to finish the job that Malcolm had started.

"C-Can you give me something, though? T-To help make me . . . Knock me out," he whispered through the humiliation of his fear and exposure of his cowardice.

Donatello, already ahead of his brother, flicked the syringe with one finger and did not look him in the eye as he said, "I will do my absolute best to not put you through any more pain than you've already gone through, Michelangelo."

He wrapped Mikey's arm in the flexible tubing and tried to ignore how hard his brother trembled as he did or how Mikey whimpered as he prodded for a vein. How the muscle in his jaw jumped and the tendrils of sweat slipped down the side of his face. Donatello forced the emotions from him, wrenching free from them; mentally cloaking himself inside the cold shield of professionalism; as he always had to do when treating one of his loved ones.

In the human world, a doctor was not allowed to operate on family members due to the stress it placed upon the surgeon, increasing the likelihood of an error being made; one with long-lasting or even tragic consequences. Donatello did not enjoy such a privilege. He was required to not only operate on the people he loved more than anything else in the world, he was tasked with doing so in the most unsanitary conditions and with limited equipment. Not to mention, he lacked training and education, learning by every mistake and near fatal-misstep alongside outdated medical journals and unproven theories of their mutated physiology.

He'd learned fast and dirty. And he carried every botched attempt at playing healer and family physician like a stain upon his soul. But there was no one else. No one to treat his family's injuries. No team of experts to diagnose, operate and manage the pain of long drawn out periods of recovery and rehabilitation. Only him.

And though at times he resented this role, he accepted it. Applied all his self-gained knowledge and devoted his impressively intense concentration to it. He would not fail in this, his assigned destiny as their family's surgeon and healer. Donatello set his jaw. He would not lose Mikey. Not again.

His voice came level and calm as he said, "You're going to feel really drowsy in a minute. Then you're going to fall back to sleep. When you wake up it'll all be over."

Mikey nodded, eyes wide with fear and anxiety. A single tear spilled over one cheek.

He huffed weakly,  _"Promise?"_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho boy. I'm making myself tear up here, dammit, me. Dammit!
> 
> TheincredibledancingBetty brought up an excellent point in situations with abused children - that the spouses usually turn on each other, their helplessness, their fear, their anguish and anger gets funneled into taking it out on each other. Marriages are tested and usually collapse under the pressure. Splinter has no one to assign blame to, it is a natural thing that he turns it on the other responsible party: Leonardo. Thank you for that insight!
> 
> Don't forget to go to Stealthystories.prophpbb DOT com - the 2014 FanFiction Awards ballot is up and the voting period is now for you! Check it out - it's a great way to support your favorite writers in the TMNT community!


	24. Love like Breathing Underwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Dunno what the heck happened here, but holy cow - I just . . . I just hope you like it. eep! Hot stuff . . .

He did not know whether it was the frigid bite of the subzero wind or the equally chilled sense of failure that resided inside his chest that made his eyes continue to water. For the tenth time, he rubbed his sleeve against them. Tiny fractured sheets of frost broke away and flaked over his cheeks, littering the lower edge of his blue mask. His entire existence rubbed raw and exposed to be useless, he stood leaning on the metal railing of her apartment, feeling the icy wind buffet him; making the end of his coat billow and snap.

He took in a shuddering breath and waited no longer. The window slid open, unlocked, without a sound. He eased into Karai's apartment like a wraith, feeling the ghosts of his regrets accompanying him like a gentle weight pressing ever persistently upon his shoulders.

The scent of her, so strong in the place that was once her home, hit him. He looked up, not realizing that his knees had given out. He was down on the carpet. The room tipped a little. He chalked it up to exhaustion.

Since he'd first learned that Mikey was missing he hadn't slept. Hadn't meditated. Hadn't done more than pause to lean against the counter and force down cups full of the tar that Donatello called coffee. He thought it would help him stay sharp while he wasn't sleeping, but all it did was make him shake.

The longest he'd gone without sleeping was two days, when Raph had been injured.

He was only fourteen, Raph was eleven. He'd tripped. That was all. He tripped running down a tunnel, trying to catch up to him and Donnie sprinting ahead. He'd cut open his leg on a jagged bit of metal pipe jutting out of the bricks.

It had gotten infected immediately. Grew bright red and swelled like an ugly misshapen bubble.

Raph developed a fever after a few days and had his first of several febrile seizures while Leo was reading to him out of a book of collected fairy tales. They'd outgrown the book, but there weren't too many to choose from in the sewers. He remembered how Raph's eyes were open, but rolled up so that the whites showed, veined in tiny threads of red. Leo had sat by, unable to do anything as Master Splinter came in and rubbed him down with alcohol to bring the fever down.

Three days later, and four more of the same terrifying seizures happened and Leo thought he was going to die. Was sure of it.

And though he knew there was nothing he could do about it, he could not leave Raph's bedside. The thought of him lying in the room all alone when that happened was too much to bear. Despite his fright, he stayed by his side, sitting awake for two days and nights, only moving to use the restroom; resting his cheek upon his brother's hot, thick arm where he laid on the cot in the infirmary.

Where Mikey lay now.

Raph had recovered. The fever mysteriously broke as his natural antibodies rescued him from the grasp of death.

He realized then with a start, that he had no idea the extent of Mikey's injuries. He was not allotted that crucial information. Worry nagged at him. He fingered the phone in his belt. But then thought better of it. He was not allowed to have anything to do with his little brother until he made this right. Because his master made it clear; this was all his responsibility. It was all his doing. Because he'd been distracted. Because he'd trusted that to love someone meant some kind of buffer to the evils of the world. That somehow, because that tender love existed, they'd be encased in a protective shield, safe from reality and the horrors that call it home.

He'd been a fool. Karai could no more control her men and their secret motivations than he could command the weather. And his punishment would be losing Mikey, again. Without being able to be there. Removed by his master, kept away as a chastisement most severe.

He had to find the one who harmed his brother.  _The one truly responsible_ , he thought bitterly, desperately, but he huffed and brushed the feeble lie aside. It was clear who was to blame here. For at the root was not the man who did this, but the negligence where diligence was required.

With trembling arms, he huffed and pushed himself to stand. He took a steadying breath. His heart raced as he set his mind to the task at hand. He began by opening the drawers of the desk near a small alcove off to the left of her living room. There had to be something here that would help him learn of Mikey's attacker.

They'd searched all the back streets and alleys, the docks and the forgotten corners of the slums that housed the ever changing circus of human refuse; the addicts, the gang members, the prostitutes, the human traffickers that lurked in the shadows, there had been nothing to go on. It was as though he'd vanished into the snow storm that savaged the city. And just as they'd found him, the storm passed; as though the weather had been a punishment of a sort weighed upon him for all his failures.

But he'd not been spirited away for those days, much as the information would lead him to start to believe. No. He'd been somewhere, at that house, with an evil human.

Karai had told them on the call. One of hers. She had not told him a name. Only the location and that she'd taken out the soldier responsible. The moment was vivid in his mind. How his heart had soared when her voice confirmed his desperate hope. She had found his brother. Saved him. And in doing so, she had effectively torn away his anger at her, his hurt, in place of deep gratitude and even awe.

She had succeeded where he'd failed. She had saved his family. Whatever had been before could be washed away in this singular act of redemption. None of the past mattered at that point.

Leonardo had always been forgiving in nature. Patient. It was not a choice as much as ingrained in his very being. As he grew older, he believed in the virtue of redemption with ever growing fervor. Depended on it, to keep going. Someone whose soul rests in never making an error needs to believe there can be some kind of atonement.

Everyone should have a chance to redeem their mistakes. Yes. He believed it firmly. Applied it to those around him, doling out forgiveness and understanding as deep as his soul, but this mercy was not for absorbing, only for giving.

He held himself exempt from this belief. For he was eldest. He could make no mistakes. Because should he err, his mistakes could cost his brothers' lives, or his father's. He had to strive for perfection and tolerate nothing less from himself. Every mistake, every misstep, plagued him and both his conscious and subconscious self brutally held him accountable. Nearly as intensely as his own father. The one person who could grant him clemency if he should find his son worthy of it.

He slammed one drawer into place.

Leniency was not something that Splinter graced his eldest son with; ever. He opened another drawer to find only utensils. Nothing of use. He jammed this closed; punched the surface of the counter; swore under his breath.

He was beginning to feel the failure as a mocking presence imitating his futile search stroke for stroke. Leo ran a hand over his face, surprised to find his mask wet beneath his eyes. He did not remember starting to cry. His control was slipping. Grief was something he was unaccustomed to having to control. The fact that it manipulated him so easily was frightening. It was compounded by a level of frustration that he'd never experienced before as well as the crushing weight of his father's anger and disappointment. His chest pinched and he braced a hand against a wall to steady his breathing.

After gathering himself, he moved slowly, room to room, pausing only sometimes, to regroup. Adding to the stress was the feel of the apartment. Her invisible presence was everywhere. It tormented him, making him see things out of the corner of his eye that was not there. Could not be there. Once he spun, sure that someone was standing behind him.

He stood, dazed, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure, before finally going back to searching through drawers and cabinets for anything that may help. Her scent followed him, flowery and fresh, cherry blossoms and lemon grass. His throat closed up. He ran to the kitchen and stuck his head out of the window near the sink, gasping for the wintry air to flush the scent of her from his nose.

Every second he spent inside this apartment was slowly killing him. But there was no other choice.

He'd found nothing of use and as he roamed down a short hallway, he wondered if it was such a good idea coming here in the first place. He knew the one who stole Mikey away was a member of her regiment. He knew that Karai had known him, possibly even trained him. He braced one hand on the wall, standing before the door of her bedroom. His head spun.

What was the use? What would he find here?

Apparently, she kept all the Foot Clan related documents at the Foot headquarters. He grimaced. This was only torturing him. A part of him wanted nothing more than to wheel around and flee. But he'd promised Master Splinter that he would find the man responsible and if he left this place unsearched, he would not be sure that he'd explored every avenue of possibility. Her bedroom was the last. And he could not go home without bringing justice down on the man who dishonored their clan.

Resolute, but with a hand that trembled slightly, he pushed open the door. It swung inward without a sound. Immediately, his eyes went to the large bed that made up most of the room. The dark blanket lay slightly rumpled.

He stood in the doorway, immobile, heart pounding, unable to breathe for her scent was strongest here. He did not want to think of her and Raphael; in this room; no doubt they'd shared that bed.

He pinched his eyes closed. In the silence there was only his heart, thudding in clumsy, erratic time in his ears. His legs turned to ice water. The urge to run away blossomed like a poisoned flower in his heaving chest.

Clenching his jaw, he turned his head to one side, avoiding looking at the bed and with some effort, moved like he was walking through heavy, wet sand across the threshold to her dresser. He kept his shell to the bed. A lump was in his throat as he sorted numbly through several papers that turned out to be nothing but a catalog, utility bills and several blank sheets of paper. His hands froze as they knocked the paper to one side.

Beneath the pile was a small book. Cloth bound and slightly bigger than a wallet. A journal. He hesitated. Then it seemed the book was in his hand of its own volition. On their own, his fingertips swept the pages open until he caught sight of a recent date, written in her long narrow cursive.

He eased backwards, eyes skimming the lines written there. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed as his heart sunk, his legs no longer strong enough to keep him upright. The springs on the bed groan softly as they bounced with his weight. His fingertip slid across the writing. His eyes blurred, but he read on.

A part of his mind that still functioned told him it was wrong. But he could not help reading, just as he could not tell his own heart to cease beating so he could join her in the beyond, free of his regrets and guilt. Free of all his burdens.

Several preliminary lines were crossed out. There were several small sketches of flowers. Below those he read:

_My Only One,_

_The regrets I have earned in my treatment of you are a mountain, so tall and imposing I cannot see the top. Your light shines from beyond it and I am blinded by the purity of it. Overwhelmed with my own guilt, the shadow of my regret paints me and everything around me in shades of black. If I were to be truthful, these regrets and all my enormous guilt pale when compared to the grief I feel over how I've wronged you._

He was pressing a finger and thumb so hard into his mouth, his fingers were light green and from between his teeth came the copper flavor of his blood. His eyes scanned lower. There were several more words crossed out. He thought he read his name, but was not sure, for it was blotted out so vehemently the paper was indented, nearly torn.

The writing went on and he did not notice how his face was wet, tears dripping down to trickle over the sides of his throat. And now the words were more unstructured. Plainly her thoughts captured, recorded but never meant to be read. He did not care.

He continued reading. Devouring every character. Memorizing every sweep and dip. Hearing her voice in his mind as his throat constricted.

_I've done so much wrong. I don't know where to start. Has it always only been wrong? Have you ever wondered if we could have been right? If it was simple, maybe. If life was a simple thing what could we have done? Still. Even now, I know I could have done better . . . if I were better._

The next line was crossed out, but he made it out clearly enough.  _I wish I was better. I wish you loved me._

His breath hitched and he made a choked sound, unable to read further.

He closed the book with a snap and drove it into the inner pocket of his coat. It was a mistake coming here. Another mistake in a long list of errors.

He fled the apartment. Running from the pain, unable to escape it.

He scrambled out of the window, leaving it open behind him. Not looking back. Unable to function now, but running on autopilot. Blinded by tears, grinding his teeth. He felt things breaking inside of himself that he thought were stable and strong. It terrified him.

He ran on into the night, crossing alleyways and busy intersections, a shadow among shadows, dark and darker still, a void where there was emptiness in the dark, a matter of substance without a core. He pushed on until, heaving, shuddering and nearly faint with exhaustion, he banged on the window with the last bits of his strength. The meaty part of his fist rapping over and over and over until the latch was snapped open.

And her timing could not have been better, for just as the window rose, he collapsed forward into her kitchen, right into her arms.

"Leo!" April cried out as she caught him, stumbling back.

* * *

Some hours later, he sat, drained but composed; mask off; coat drying over the bath tub; cradling a mug of hot cocoa in his palms, relishing the heat searing both hands, allowing it to ground him. April sat across from him, shaking her head.

The story had slowly unfolded out of him but soon turned into a gush of confession, a spilling of his sins, awash in the blood of his guilt and remorse. April stared ahead, eyes glazed, but focused, glassy with emotions. She sat forward, then leaned back, then forward again. She slapped her thighs and he looked up.

He'd told her everything. From his failure due to his feelings for Karai to Mikey's disappearance to their desperate search to bringing him home and Karai's assistance and subsequent death. He did not tell her about Raphael's involvement with Karai. He felt it was not his place to reveal personal matters of his brothers to anyone, not even April. If Raphael wanted to tell her, then one day he could. To him and his brothers, she was sister, mother, confidant and co-conspirer. To all of them, except one.

To him . . . she was but the universe and all the mysteries it held. And he saw her still as thus, despite his frigid avoidance of her and his guise of unemotional detachment whenever she was mentioned.

April would not look at him at first. She continued to shake her head. Then finally she let out a moan as she pressed all her fingertips to her forehead.

"You should have come to me, Leo. First thing."

"I know," he said immediately with a bob of his head.

She leveled a look at him. It said so much. She understood so much. She did not judge. She never had. She was there for him. And he should have come to her sooner.

He stared down into the cocoa. He could bear no more weight of guilt of any sort. He could not. He was still too raw and fragile.

Sensing this, somehow, in that impossible way, that mysterious talent that only she possessed, she got up and sat next to him, draping an arm around his broad shoulders. She squeezed him and gripped him tightly.

He leaned into the embrace.

"I mean, before. About Karai."

He blinked and gave her a half-hearted nod. In a broken voice he spoke truthfully, "I was afraid."

He did not think that his problems with love should be something that he turned to April with, considering her past with Donatello. When his feelings were first blossoming bright and painfully earnest inside him, things were complicated between his younger brother and April. He had chosen to keep his confusion to himself and not add further complications regarding romantic entanglements to what the family was going through at the time. Master Splinter had had enough on his plate at the time.

Besides that he didn't understand what was happening. With him or with his brother.

She rested her forehead on his shoulder.

"I thought . . . I knew what I was doing."

She rubbed his arms. "It's okay, Leo."

He shook his head. "This is all my fault. Mikey would not have been taken . . . if I wasn't distracted. I should have tried to lose Karai and her men. B-But I thought . . . I th-thought . . ."

April nodded. "I know. You thought she'd protect you and your brothers because you thought she . . . had feelings for you."

He closed his eyes but could say nothing. Not without implicating Raphael. The fact was that Karai had loved him. He was sure of it. But it only made everything that much worse. Because even in the truth of that love, it was not enough to keep the dark from hurting his family. Evil triumphed. Mocked love's foolishness.

"Here's what I can do to help you . . . I'll see what Casey can drum up, if anything. Someone had to have heard something. Someone always brags about this kind of stuff. Sick bastards."

He glanced up at her. She blinked and gave him a reassuring smile. "He knows a lot of scummy people." She sighed. "I dunno, but I'm sure he'd be happy to help. It's not like he's doing anything else lately," she offered and if there was some aggravation in her tone, Leonardo decided he didn't want to acknowledge it. His head was spinning as it was. He did not need more to wrestle with. This was one area he'd historically kept clear from, anyway.

Leo turned his head and met her eyes. He nodded his gratitude before dropping them away again. Every little bit helped. Though a foreboding feeling flitted through his stomach. He did not mean to bring April into this. He hoped she'd ask for Casey to investigate his leads and leave it at that. But the notion of Casey hitting up local scum for answers gave him an idea. It was something that he'd normally not stoop to, but he was running out of options.

He rubbed his forehead. The secondary problem loomed.

He would have to admit to talking to her to Donatello. He sighed. Don was angry with him as it was; clearly blaming him for everything that had happened as furiously as Splinter. A spike of anger went through him as he remembered Don not wanting to allow him to lay Karai's body in a more respectful place. Using that discomfort to ground himself, he stood.

"I should go."

"Leo, if you're really not going to go home until you catch this guy . . . maybe you should stay here tonight and rest." Her gaze roved over the deep circles beneath his eyes. He was shaking his head but she braced her hands on his shoulders, keeping him still. "You'll work better with a clear head. You know it's not a good idea to try and work on something important when you can't think straight. Getting your head on straight is very important. One of the most important things you can do for yourself." She was quoting from her therapy lessons, but tried her best to make it sound natural.

He considered her offer, too tired to notice anything other than the honest attempt to help. But he turned to go. "I have to find him . . . bring him to justice. I can't go home until I do."

"Leo," she dropped her head into one hand.

When she looked up he was gone. Shaking her head, she stared at the untouched cocoa on the coffee table, deciding that in the morning she'd go see Mikey. She would just have to face up to her past and endure whatever happened as a result.

Oddly enough, though, a tiny electric like current of excitement went through her at the prospect. She chewed her bottom lip, concerned that this might be a sign of trouble. In the end, her stubborn nature won out. It wouldn't be like they were alone together, after all.

Besides, she needed to see if Mikey was okay. That was the most important thing.

* * *

The next morning, the lair was quiet as April stepped through the turnstiles. The familiar scent of incense and herbs hit her and a homesickness assaulted her, making her feet stumble into her next step. She set the bags of groceries that she'd picked up for them onto the family's table. She ran a hand through her hair crossed into the living room. This wasn't as easy as she thought it was going to be.

The last time she'd been here had been briefly at Christmas when she, along with Casey, dropped presents and then took off, long before Donatello emerged from his lab. Avoidance was always a coward's way out, but it was the fastest way to quit something cold turkey, she steeled herself with more ramblings from her years of compulsory therapy.

The stillness was unsettling. Dust motes spun in lazy circles around her. She rubbed her hands together. Found them clammy and was surprised. But only a little.

When was the last time she was here, alone? Had it really been years? She gave herself a mental shake. There were more important things to consider right now. Namely, Mikey and how he was doing.

She ran her tongue over her lips and called, "Hello?"

"Good morning."

April turned and it was more a jump than a natural movement.

Donatello stood, leaning against the corner of the wall that separated the long hallway that led to their bedrooms and the living room. Like a sentry between the boundary line of what was safe: the living room, and what was not: his lab, his bedroom.

His arms were crossed but it wasn't an aggressive stance. He was in a slightly grayed white lab coat.

She was glad to see him, he looked healthy, considering what the family was going through, but worry fluttered around the edges of her reason. A yearning to bolt had to be suppressed. She did her best to match his casual, if not formal, greeting, "Hi, Donatello." She stuck her hands into her back pockets and dropped her head. "I brought some groceries."

"Thank you."

She waited.

Familiar sweeping emotions rose and crashed through her. That didn't surprise her. She took in a cleansing breath. It was nothing but wanting some honesty here. That was all, she told herself firmly. Mostly she wanted him to start, to tell her about Mikey.

It hurt her that none of them had come to tell her. That even for something so critical, Don had not reached out to her. The past was gone. There was no reason to keep her out of family affairs. Especially when something so important came up.

"I saw Leo last night. He told me what happened with Mikey. I've come to see him. To check on him."

She wished he'd speak. To say anything other than the extreme stilted language that made up their brief and rare exchanges. So confined from what once was, so tame that it was nearly a dead thing between them. A cold, but very real presence laying between them.

There used to be conversations that bled into the wee hours of the morning, exhaustive, exhilarating, fascinating, and stimulating. Words murmured, laughed over, shouted with awe, whispered in reverence, given and taken, exchanged for other things. Words were the currency which paid for their time together. Words that soon needed no utterance to be heard.

Words that became flesh. Flesh that became ethereal bodies of heat, sweat and then only bliss, joy, awakening.

He continued to stare at her with a blank expression. Standing behind the wall that he'd erected all those years ago when she had made her decision.

And she had to wonder at that. Did he feel anything for her anymore? She brushed the dangerous question aside.

The silence stretched on. Irritation flared. She did not want to be angry with him, that emotion was too fiery, too close to other emotions that ran hot, that boiled beneath flesh and fed into larger bodies of molten things; dark things, desperate things. Things that she'd been forced to turn away from when it had gotten too deep, when she found she couldn't breathe around him without his mouth on hers, breathing into her, when she couldn't think straight without his hands caressing, guiding, groping, pulling, holding, when she couldn't understand what could be more important than his body against hers, his thick heat inside . . . reaching into her soul . . . grinding her mind into oblivion . . .

She cleared her throat and swept her gaze to the floor. Her cheeks burned and she was sure her face was flushed. She hoped he did not notice.

A part of her hoped he did.

What would he think of that? Would that be cause enough to speak? To tear away the walls that he so smugly hid behind while she remained exposed, out in the open, where everyone knew her shame; knew her need.

It had been his father that orchestrated the intervention. He'd stood by doing nothing until he felt that things were not taking a proper course. He'd taken them aside. Both of them. Caught up in their wild affair, they never saw what was happening around them. How they'd lost themselves inside each other and how the others worried and how that worry grew into fearful concern and finally, inevitably, to anger.

Slowly and gently, he explained how their relationship was unhealthy. April and Donatello had naturally disagreed. Vehemently. Splinter was forced then into consulting with April's father.

They formed a dedicated front. A team effort to come between the young lovers. It was wrong, they'd insisted, repeatedly. It was more than him being a mutant and her a human. Though that was definitely an uncomfortable issue that her father was extremely unhappy about. That wasn't the only issue, however.

The truth was that the situation had become . . . obsessive.

For her state of mind, for her health, of course, Splinter insisted that the relationship should come to an end. Her father whole-heartedly agreed and aided him in his goal to break them apart. He relentlessly hounded her to stay away from the mutant boy. Grounded her. Put bars on her window. He had her attending counseling sessions, day after day, week after week, until finally, months later, they eventually wore her down.

They had her deliver the news, of course. It had to be that way, they explained.

It had to be clear. Direct. Standing in his doorway, shivering despite the sultry humidity of a summer that was long overdue to be over; ninety degrees in October, she broke it off from a very hurt, uncomprehending Donatello.

He believed that they were overreacting. He tried to reason. He pleaded. At one point he'd begged.

Looking back, through the help of her therapists, she realized that he was as lost as she. And only by standing outside of that volcano of isolating, self-destructive need that they named love, could she see it. She could not sustain a complete and full life that only made up Donatello and nothing else. It was unhealthy. He was a fierce addiction that she had to recover from.

So with her father and Don's father's insistence, she went away. She attended college and when she came back home, she met her current boyfriend; Casey Jones.

It was four years ago when everything good in her life imploded. Less than that when she convinced herself that what other people thought of her life mattered more than what she thought. Even less than that when she willed herself to stop thinking about him. All the time. In the shower, in the garden, at work, when watching a movie, when making love.

That was the hardest.

But the truth was, like a heroin addict still yearning for a fix, she still she burned for those long hours, spent lost in his eyes; his mouth; his body. The days hidden away, open only to their exploration of each other's bodies. They'd spend hours simply devouring each other. They needed nothing else. It was good. So good. Addictive. And obsessive.

It truly had been for the best that it ended. She knew that now. Repeated it to herself nightly. Sometimes twice a day, in fact.

Things had cooled and become rather formal between them the last year or so, but civil, when they'd meet. Restrained.

It was for the best. Really, it was.

Suddenly he was close to her and her heart was thudding in her throat so hard she thought she could taste her pulse. He kept his eyes on her face and she knew he could see the high color of her yearning, clearly marking her, unfairly exposing her.

"Mikey's recovering in the lab." He said and his eyes were haunted. "I don't know if he wants visitors."

She struggled a moment to find her voice. Heat and tingling sensations were racing over her body, converging lower. She searched his eyes, though, for some sign that there was something happening to him, as well. That she wasn't still left out in the open, blamed and alone. For wanting him so terribly, for loving him so powerfully.

But his face was calm. His eyes flat, tired, a little lost. He focused on her gaze and for one heart stopping second she saw him. The vulnerability that she remembered. The boy she knew and craved was there, still with all his need, burning as she was, alive in the present and as real here as he was in her mind.

But he swept his gaze away and took a step back, clearing his throat.

"Master Splinter is in there with him now, though. So, I think it would be alright," he spoke to the floor. He turned towards the kitchen but stopped to add, "It's been a difficult night. A long night."

She noticed then the spattering of crimson, almost rust colored, along the sleeves of his coat. It had indeed been a bad night if Don was called on to operate on Mikey, she agreed to herself, remembering how he'd confided in her of his terror when asked to play medic; revealing his love for his family and his fathomless terror that he'd hurt them worse in his fumbling.

She knew he was stressed and hurting. Her heart skipped a beat and she wanted to hold him, comfort him. But her mind flew to Mikey. Don had operated on him. She needed to see him. She could give Donatello what he needed later. The thought warmed her and she chastised herself.

She crossed the room and stood outside the infirmary's door, pausing for a second. Unwittingly and without realizing, she stole a glance over her shoulder. A thrill went through her. Forbidden and luscious.

He was watching her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the theme of this story which is the destructive, redemptive, explosive power of Love in all it's hideous glory, why not add some heat for Mr. Calm and Cool and Detached, huh? I swear, I dunno how I came up with April having an insanely intense sexual past with Donnie, but I haven't done it before and figured, well, why not!? Raph got his with Karai . . . that leaves poor Leo and of course, my poor, poor baby, Mikey!


	25. The Will of Necessity

April stepped into the infirmary. The lights were off except for one in the corner and that one was dimmed. There was the faint scent of antiseptic and a harsh bitter fragrance that usually filled hospital wings, more strongly near the areas where surgeries were performed. Don had operated on Michelangelo, there was no doubt.  Her eyes flew to Mikey, laying on his stomach gazing dully to one side with heavy-lidded eyes as Master Splinter read to him from where he knelt on a pillow. His voice was hushed and soothing.

Splinter turned his head and stopped reading when he saw her standing there. He closed the book and slowly rose to stand. Old bones popped.

Though he wanted to stroke his son's head in an affectionate gesture meant only to give him support and love, he refrained; understanding now that such an action would only serve to make his son more uncomfortable and uneasy. Any physical contact he'd observed after the surgery between his son and Donatello left Michelangelo shuddering and pulling towards the wall. Withdrawing and scowling at times; snapping angrily and uncharacteristically at them to leave him be if they crowded him or handled him too much. Though he did not want to admit why this was happening, his heart understood with painful clarity. His son had been molested and worse, raped.

He held the book tightly under one arm. The natural thing for a parent was to offer comfort; to hold and protect their child when they've been hurt or frightened. And though Mikey was nearly fully grown, he was Splinter's youngest; his baby. To be cut from this basic interaction was breaking Master Splinter's heart. That the ability to offer physical comfort had been taken from his relationship with his child infuriated Splinter. This infuriation was tempered with a deep sadness. He did his best to funnel it into productive energy. But his mind was set to one purpose: Leonardo's success.

He wanted the abuser's head. He wanted the man responsible for his son's torture to be skinned alive. His rage was a living thing inside his body, vying for dominance over a usually peaceful and rather contented soul.

But it was for the best that he remained calm. Outwardly so, at least. He could sense his son's own impotent fury simmering below the surface. He could not imagine the suffering that his most innocent child must have endured to cause such rage to fire within his otherwise tender, loving, gentle nature. That his pain was morphing into anger at this point seemed like a natural course to Splinter and so he gave Michelangelo the space that he needed; while remaining, as ever, nearby should his boy need him. Near but not too close. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his boy any further discomfort.

"Miss O'Neil has stopped by, Michelangelo," he announced softly to break the awkward silence in the room.

Mikey's eyes raised to see her but he did not greet her.

She felt the weight of his vacant stare and could not read his expression. Something between disinterest and sadness. She'd never seen the light in his eyes so low.

Splinter stepped to her and gave her a stiff nod in greeting. "Good morning, Ms. O'Neil."

"Hi, Master Splinter." She looked back to Mikey, he was not looking at her any longer; weakly pulling at a long loose thread from the edge of the cotton blanket draped over him. "Hi, Mikey." She saw him wince at his name and she frowned. She noted he said nothing in response to her greeting. Usually the one to come bounding to her whenever she'd come over, even after the disaster with Donatello, his lack of response only made her feel nervous and fearful.

Master Splinter turned to him but, as though deciding better of it, he twisted back around, gave her a pat on the arm. "He is tired," he explained away his son's reticence. "Do not linger too long. He will need his rest." With that he left the room.

April rubbed her hands together and clasped them tightly, then folded her arms protectively across her chest as she stepped closer and moved a chair over to sit.

Mikey shot several glances between her and the thread before settling on simply closing his eyes. He felt her taking in his condition. Though she didn't say anything it was as though her silent examination was filled with exclamations.

"Oh, honey," she sighed. He kept his eyes closed. She reached out to him but he cringed away from her before she could touch him. Her hand hesitated then dropped away. "I'm so-"

"I'm fine."

She blinked and chewed her lip, noting that he was certainly not fine. But feeling surprised at the tone and the uncalled for animosity that seemed to be slowly filling the space between them.

"Leo told me what happened."

This had him opening his eyes. He peered at her over his shoulder, without moving his head off the pillow his opposite arm was bunched beneath.

"You saw Leo?"

She nodded. "Last night."

He considered that. Then, "Is he . . . is he home?"

She shook her head and his eyes dropped. "Oh."

"Did you want me to tell Splinter you want to see him?" she offered.

He shook his head quickly, "No. I don't want to see him." He felt a mixture of relief and dread that his brother was not home. On one hand, he yearned for the comforting presence of his gentle older brother, but on the other hand he knew that Leo seeing him like this, so weak and beaten, would be too hard to take. He would no doubt gaze down at him with pity and that was something Mikey could not deal with right now. "I was just wondering where he was at."

"He's . . ." she paused and decided that telling Mikey that Leo was hunting down his captor might not be the best idea. Instead, she switched tactics and topics. "You had an operation." It was a statement, not a question.

His eyes glanced away. He gave her a slight nod.

"Are you doing okay? Uh, do you maybe want to talk about it?"

He shook his head morosely. She noticed then that his bottom lip puckered a little as if he were fighting the urge to cry. Her heart pinched. She reached out again and he flinched this time before she even touched him. She adjusted her movement and shifted the blanket further up onto his shoulder instead of embracing him.

"You were gone for a few days," she said and felt stupid for stating the obvious and something that he really didn't need her to point out.

"Yeah," he croaked. He gave a soft huff and her eyes snapped to him. He peered at her before dropping his eyes. "It's stupid, but I thought I was gone for a week." Then softer, he mumbled, "Felt like it."

Seizing the opportunity, she ventured, "I'm sure it did. But you're home now. Safe."

He closed his eyes and nodded, pressing his cheek a little harder into his arm. Though what she said was true, he was indeed home, he felt the continual crush of needing to flee; of wanting to escape. Maybe it was just to get away from the pain, or perhaps to run from the half-hidden pity he caught in Donatello's eyes when he thought Mikey couldn't see him staring; the outright pity painted clearly on Raphael's face every time his brother looked at him made his stomach hurt. He knew that Leonardo would have that same look. He wouldn't just be the useless baby of the family any more, now he was the broken one. The one that had been used.

Tears stung his eyes and he burrowed his snout deeper between his folded arms. He wished April would leave. He really wished he could just go to his room. He never thought you could be so homesick surrounded by your family members just because you couldn't move from point A to point B in your home.

He exhaled and gave a little moan that April must have mistook for him asking something because she scooted closer. A little too close. He could smell her perfume and though it was a pleasant thing to breathe in after all the sharp scents that filled the lab, he felt the all too familiar surge of panic go through him with her proximity, his eyes snapped open and he frowned.

"What?" The sharp edge was in his tone again.

Maybe it was knowing Raph all these years, but April was not easily intimidated by anyone's gruff responses. 

He felt a twinge of regret for snapping at her. Really, it was nice to see her friendly, loving face after what he'd been put through. He felt the panic ease back; something comforting edging inwards to fill the gaping cracks left behind. Yeah, he was happy she was there.

Her answer was soft and full of caring. "Can I get you anything? Anything at all?"

He considered this and his eyes went to the shelves and the long low table propped against the wall out of his reach where Donatello stored all the necessary medical equipment and tools. A sink was fitted between two counters and beneath that were bins filled with first aid materials, things like bandages of every shape and size along with plaster for mixing casts and the heavier equipment used for serious emergencies. Next to the sink was a line of plastic containers.

His mouth went dry.

Don had given Master Splinter and Raphael strict instructions for the administration of the painkillers. He'd listened as Don told them the timetable between giving him the meds. He'd droned on and on about side effects should they mess up the routine. Mikey didn't care about any of that. What could be worse than what had already happened to him? He lay there in his disfigured body, aching while his emotions continued to dive and surge between despair and fury.

On top of that, Don had told him there'd be at least two weeks of bed rest, maybe more, because of the amputation. Then there'd be some physical therapy and then he zoned out the rest. Everything Donatello was telling him amounted to what sounded like a lot of pain and struggle for something as stupid as having a useless piece of his body removed. As he thought this, though, a pang of grief followed by a sinking sort of dolor. The comfort that April had brought to his heart was iced over with his despondency.

What he wanted was to feel nothing.

Like just before he fell asleep last night. Before Don lobbed off the part of him that should have been tucked safely away until the time he was ready to be intimate with someone. His jaw clenched. He was so stupid. He had to forget about that. Forever. Everything was different now. There was no going back. Because he wasn't strong enough to fight Malcolm. Because he'd allowed the man to take him and use him however he wanted.

He wanted to forget. He wanted to be numb. He wanted to escape.

His heart was thumping against the mattress below him. His palms grew sweaty. He knew there was a chance that Don had told April about the painkillers and how much he should and shouldn't have. Then again, she and his brother hadn't really been speaking lately. Perhaps he didn't say anything to her at all.

"Actually, April," he began and she perked up immediately. He looked at her but dropped his gaze away. "I'm really sore. From the operation. Do you think you could get me something for the pain?"

"Oh, sure." She stood up and paused, her eyes scanning the line of unfamiliar containers. "Oh, uh, maybe I should get Donatello."

"N-No," he replied. "It's okay. Don't bother him. He worked on me all last night . . . I'm sure he's beat."

Her face crushed into a look of sympathy. Here he was having gone through a nightmare and he still was concerned about his brother's welfare. She always knew that the guys were close, but she never really respected how they looked after each other until things like this happened to them.

A feeling of having lost something precious gripped her heart then. It made her inhale sharply for the force of the recognition. For in that instance, she knew that tender, yet fierce, devotion had been given to her as well, coupled with a vast immeasurable love from Donatello.

She had once been given something rare; a treasure that she did not fully comprehend or appreciate; only to have been forced to set it aside. Forced onto a path that was best for her. For her health. Doctor's orders. Doctor's command.

But in the end, she had made her own decision, hadn't she? When she stood in front of him and coldly told him it was over, that she had moved on and he was nothing to her now. That he'd been fun. As though he were a game she had played and then tired of. Her therapist had explained in no uncertain terms that April end things with this boy and make it perfectly clear that there was no hope for resumption of their relationship. For her future. For her health. Things had to be completely severed.

Knowing his adoration of her, remembering his fervent promises of a love that would endure beyond all space and time, she knew what had to be done in order to fulfill her doctor's stipulation. She had decided to be cruel. And she had been. As wounding as she could never imagine ever having to be to someone who loved her more than he loved himself.

The hurt; the anguish on his face; the terror and denial in his eyes as he fell to his knees before her . . . Her own soul crumpled with his begging; it crouched and fell to the floor, there with him, clinging to him, despite her remaining standing. It was there still. Just behind her. In the space where he'd fallen before her. Where she pretended not to be bleeding to death on the inside from a shattered heart.

Her eyelids fell closed. The lump at the center of her throat strangled her. Her hands fluttered over her face before she wrapped her arms around herself. She came here for Michelangelo. Right now was not the time to revisit this. Right now, she had to remember how to breathe.

Mikey raised his head from his arms. She hugged herself but made no move to get the painkillers that he was growing more desperate to have. He knew he needed to say more if he wanted to get the meds.

"M-My tail, it hurts so much," he admitted and dropped his face into the crook of his arms. This was no lie. The earlier painkillers had taken much of the edge off, but the aching throb of his phantom appendage was slowly growing stronger.

She glanced between the medicine and him. "Your tail?" she asked uncertainly.

He nodded, still with his face hidden. But then he raised his head and his expression was so desperately sad that her throat tightened around the lump remaining there.

"He had to take it off. The guy who had me . . . didn't like it." His face grew more and more gray as he spoke. "He tried to cut it off," his voice dropped to a whisper. "B-But it was too th-thick or something and Donnie couldn't . . . he couldn't fix it."

Her hand flew to her mouth; stomach flipped. She understood from her physical explorations of Donatello years before that his tail, and she could only guess it was the same for all of them, had been an extremely erogenous zone. Before she'd been torn away from her love affair with the young mutant, she'd spent countless moments stroking Donnie's private appendage; enjoying the exotic feel of it as it curled around her hand and fingers from the attention; the look of earnest bliss on his face; and the near instant climax it brought to him should she pull it and pet it just a certain way while working her mouth over his rigid flesh; the deep churring sound he could not withhold; the way his tail grew thick and trembled when he was aroused.

The memory brought a flush to her face but her stomach clenched in pained sympathy for Michelangelo. To lose that. It was monstrous. Worse than that. It was unfair.

"Oh, Mikey, that's so –" she shook her head. There were no words to express her mortification, her sympathy and her misery for him. Determined now to do  _something_  for him, she turned back to the plastic containers and picked one up, examined it and set it down, then chose another and crossed to sit next to him again. She carefully opened it and spilled one into her hand.

"Thank you, April," he said quietly. "Two. I need two."

She frowned. "Are you sure, Mikey?"

He rolled to one side and grimaced and gasped. Through the discomfort, he nodded. "And could you not call me that, please?"

So that's why he flinched earlier when she had greeted him. She could not guess why he suddenly no longer wanted to be called by the endearment. But se was not going to upset him by questioning him over something so frivolous. "Oh. Oh, sure. Mike. Is . . . is Mike alright?"

He took the pills from her and swallowed them both with some effort. He settled into his arms once again, and said, "He's going to be."

A smile, half-hidden, broken and somewhat sardonic graced his features, making April frown. The smile was so unlike his usual happy, sincere grins. This was tainted, somehow and so foreign and misaligned to his innocent features it left her feeling uneasy. A tremor of worry mixed with fear worked its shivery way over her spine.

* * *

Hours later, April watched Raphael go into the infirmary with a bowl of broth only to come slinking back out again a moment later, shoulders down, bowl in his grip. He set it down next to April at the kitchen table. She cradled a cooling mug of tea in both hands, twisting it back and forth with an anxious energy that she hadn't been able to shake since she had seen that strange smile on Mikey's face after swallowing those pills.

Raphael leaned against the back of the chair next to her with two hands. He glanced at her then the clock. "Where's Sensei?"

"Master Splinter's resting in his room. He looked exhausted earlier. I think he might be asleep."

Raphael nodded and pulled the chair out to sit. He ran a hand over his face and propped his cheek against the heel of his hand. He blinked and stared at the bowl of broth. He pushed it away from himself with one finger.

If he wondered where his brother was, he didn't ask. April wouldn't know for sure. Donatello was either in the garage or his room. She hadn't seen him since she had interacted with him so briefly that morning. It was for the best. She could think more clearly without him around her.

"Is Mikey, er, Mike, still out?"

Raph noticed the switch in his name. He dropped his hand and crossed his arms, leaning back. He nodded. Then shook his head. "I can't believe Don took off his tail."

April stared at him then to her mug she said, "I'm sure he didn't have a choice."

"Nah, you're right. I just . . . I just wish he didn't have to do that to him." He leaned forward now and picked at an indention in the table. "It's like . . . he suffered enough, you know? To have to do that on top of what he went through . . ." he trailed off and April could see the tears in his eyes, the anger beneath the sadness. He slapped the table, but it was without much force. He shifted, agitated. "I want to go," he said earnestly and stared at her so intensely she sat back.

"Go?"

"Yeah. Go get the fucker that did this to Mikey. But . . ." he struggled. "I can't leave 'em. Not yet. I left him and lookit what happened. I feel like if I turn my back . . . somethin' worse is gonna happen. I know it sounds stupid. Even to me, it does. But . . . I just can't."

She reached over and covered his hand with hers. He shook his head miserably.

"He's going to be okay, Raph. He's home. Don did what he needed to do to keep him healthy," her voice caught on the hated word but she plunged on, hoping that Raph didn't notice, "really. He just needs a little time to heal after what he's been put through. And I'm sure there's a lot more to it than we can even know at this point." He gave her another miserable look and her heart hurt for him.

Out of all of them, he'd been protective of her, those years ago, when her life had been turned upside down by people trying to keep her on a straight and narrow path; doing his best to take her side whenever he could. Where Leonardo was silent on the matter, deferring to their father's thoughts and decision on the situation whenever it came up, Raph was fiery and adamant that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. That everyone was overreacting. It wasn't just for her happiness that he defended the situation between her and Don. She knew that he wanted Donatello to be happy as well.

It just wasn't meant to be. Not for her. Not for Don. Not for any of them. Happiness was for other people. Ordinary people. Healthy people.

She thought suddenly of Leonardo out there alone. Hunting. Hurting. Feeling his grief for someone that never loved him. Feeling his failure and his father's disappointment.

"I'm sure Leonardo could use your help out there."

He gave her a bleak look. He huffed, "I'm the last person that Leo wants to be around right now."

She frowned slightly. Squeezed his hand. Arguments between the eldest son and Raph were a common occurrence. It was a sad fact of their lives. But surely what the family was facing would rise above any petty bickering that had caused this latest rift between the two young men.

"Raph, it isn't like that. Whatever you two are fighting about can be put aside. He needs your help. When he came to my apartment last night he looked terrible. He had this . . . haunted look in his eyes. He told me he couldn't come home until he caught the guy responsible for Mikey." She cleared her throat and amended, "Michelangelo."

"That's right. And he shouldn't come back here 'til he at least knows where ta find the bastard." He slid his hand out from under hers. He looked to the side and shook his head, bouncing one knee in irritation.

But the initial anger she felt come off him as she brought up Leonardo faded back to some other emotion. It felt ugly and thick. Like regret.

"And, uh, I don't think we're ever gonna get over this one, April."

She gave him a puzzled look. The returning expression on his face was one of so much remorse that April felt afraid of what might give the strongest of them such a defeated, sorrowful look.

His voice was rough as he said, "I really fucked everything up." He rubbed the bridge of his eyes hard and added, "I didn't mean ta, though. I didn't. That's the worst part of all this. I-I thought he was over his little crush." He spat out the last word as if it tasted bad on his tongue. The anger was coming back to the surface. "And I was so fuckin' stupid. Heh, no surprise there."

He shook his head again as she opened her mouth to protest his proclamations of such self-hatred. He started, "I thought she . . ." He bit off what he had tried to say. He chuckled and it was a hollow sound. He shook his head, dropping it. He said quietly, "Doesn't matter. Not anymore. It's done, now. Done. Over."

Things were falling into place and the finishing picture that was forming was disturbing no matter how she tried to frame it in her mind. She decided to approach it in the best manner when dealing with the forthright mutant. The best way with Raphael was the direct way.

"You were seeing . . . Karai?"

He raised his guilt-filled eyes to her and swept them away. He gave her the smallest nod.

She took in a long deep breath and blew it out, raising her brows.  _Oh, boy_.

She felt the sting of anger at Raphael for hurting Leonardo in such a way, but she just couldn't believe he'd be capable of doing that to Leo. It wasn't part of who he was. No. There was more to this picture. More to the puzzle. She considered what he just told her against what Leo had told her last night, which wasn't much. Except that he was clearly still deeply in love with this dangerous woman who had apparently given her life to save Michelangelo. Something she was still trying to wrap her mind around. And now this revelation.

Her head was spinning. Raph was in a relationship with Karai. How did that even happen? Now she realized with a sinking feeling why Raphael felt that Leo would not want to see him or be anywhere near him. Through everything that had happened between Mikey's disappearance and Karai's death, the truth must have come out. She swallowed dryly. It must have been terrible. For them both. But she had to clarify something.

"You thought . . . you thought that Leo was past any feelings for her."

He nodded and then before she could condemn him or offer her condolences and support, he swore in a low growl and stood up. He paced and threw a punch into the bricks near the stove. Then pounded them with the meaty part of his opposite fist.

April rose up and moved towards him, giving him enough space, but wanting to stop him before he hurt himself worse. "Raph. Stop. Raphael."

He swore again and spun around. He kicked the chair and sent it skittering across the floor. April jumped to one side. Then he picked up the bowl of broth and launched it into the bricks he'd just been pummeling with a brief scream full of anguish. Chest heaving, face flushed he turned, looking for something else to unleash his inner turmoil upon. He looked around, furious and lost until his eyes landed on April.

She held up her hands in a placating gesture. "C'mon Raph. There's no point."

She watched something crumble inside of him and he pitched forward; his face pained with grief. She caught him with clumsy effort and then struggling more than a little, she led him to the living room couch. She sat him down like a drowsy, over-sized toddler. She dashed back to the kitchen and returned with a small first aid kit. Without a word, she set to wiping his bleeding knuckles with an antiseptic soaked cotton ball and then set to wrapping them.

Minutes passed without a word being said between them. Both lost in their thoughts. Raph's was a bleak tangled mess. April's more focused and determined. Her earlier consideration of just going home to give them all some space to recover from this fled like a scattering of frightened field mice. She was not leaving here. Raphael . . . Michelangelo. They never needed her more than now. She had to be strong. She had to mine her will for the steel that deep down she knew was inside of her. It was necessary for her to remain. That much was clear to her. Perfectly clear.

Her eyes glanced in the direction of Donatello's room and she swallowed. Whether he needed her or not was left to be seen. And maybe it was for the best if she saw nothing at all. Despite her wanting to. Irrationally, so.

Turning her mind away from that dangerous train of thought, she said, "I know a better use for this negative energy, Raph."

He sniffled despite no tears falling from his overly bright eyes. She gave him a pointed look. He knew what she was inferring. To go aid Leonardo in the hunt. He fidgeted where he sat.

"I can't leave 'em. Not yet." He shook his head stubbornly, again, looking more like a big kid than a grown man. "Not yet, April. Not yet."

And she wondered if he meant he couldn't leave Michelangelo's side just yet, or face his brother struggling in the midst of his own torment and grief. She nodded and continued to wrap his hands. There was no need to push him now. When he was ready, he would go. She'd help him get there. Hopefully soon so that Leonardo, the brother left on his own, out in the cold, uncaring world, fleeing his father's brutal disapproval and anger; his own grief and failings; hunting a monster that nearly killed his little brother; wouldn't have to go too long thinking he was alone in this.

Because she knew that Raphael wanted to be there with him. He wanted to help bring justice for his little brother's injuries and torment. He wanted to fight alongside his brother, the one she always saw him looking up to, despite the feigned irritation, the fights, and the sarcasm. She could feel it in her bones, in her soul. But he was afraid. So afraid.

Beneath the anger there it always was, the fear that drove this amazing person named Raphael to act so brazenly, to behave so caustically, so hardened against the constant terror that ran his life. She knew the source if not the name. The fear of losing his only family. The fear of being the last one standing. The gaping chasm of loneliness that gnawed at him. She understood that piece. Too well.

He was still shaking his head. She patted his hand and she felt his fingers tightened around her own.

"Okay, Raph. It's okay. I'm going to help you guys. However I can. And . . . it's going to be okay."

He sat there, trembling, listening to her murmur to him that everything would be okay, wanting desperately to believe that what she was saying could somehow miraculously become reality. Despite his heart pounding, so full of self-hatred, so pained with grief and regrets for so many things that he could barely sort through it all. The only thing he saw clearly was that he needed to stay close to Mikey.

Something told him that he needed to keep watch over his younger brother.

The image of Mikey seeing him come into the room, then watching helplessly as the light went out of his eyes as he swept the blade into his forearm then brought it up to cut his own throat seized him with an icy unnamed terror. No. He could not leave Mikey's side. Not yet.

He would face Leo and his older brother's disgust and hatred of him, deservedly so, when he was sure that Mikey was not going to harm himself like that again. Then he'd go to help Leo. If he'd have him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing from my readers, so keep those amazing reviews coming! You give me a lot to chew on and consider and sometimes things get fired into my imagination and find themselves worked into my stories. This journey is nearly complete, we still have a few chapters to go, but it is nearing a finale, slowly but surely. Ah, I had such a hard time with the title for this chapter. I hope it works. :D
> 
> P.S. - I love you guys and gals. :D You ask me wonderful questions, you listen patiently as I wax poetic about the boys as if they were as real as you or I and never once do you call me out on being completely insane and obsessed! What a great fandom to be part of! What an honor to have such readers as you!


	26. Surfacing

The hollow sleep-deprived days drew into long exhaustive campaigns of nighttime searching. Leonardo knew that the Foot Clan took in runaways, committing them to the work of the organization in return for housing, food and general care. In some cases, more than a few would originate through the city's underbelly of gang life. The Foot Clan had a reputation that drove the disillusioned teens, tired of being beaten and on the run from opposing gang members or the police into their ranks.

It was a better life, despite the fact that the violent end of their lives remained written in stone. The lives of these lost children ignored, largely glanced over; these discards of a society too large to hold such a small thing as compassion, too busy to take a moment to pay attention to their sad, if inevitable stories, which repeated daily in the back alleys and haunted hallways of tenement housing.

If there was a history of the man that had taken Mikey through the Purple Dragons, then Leo had to explore it. He only knew that the soldier was under Karai. He also knew from her complaints about her father that she was given the most useless, most pathetic of men to train. Often they came straight from the street gangs into her regiment. She thought her father found it amusing to hand her such garbage and watch her struggle to make something of them. But mold them she had. And Leonardo had a secret, but deep and sincere, respect for her commitment to these forgotten teens.

At the very least, she gave them some shred of honor. Even though in the larger picture, their goals were illicit and unlawful; they were given a place to belong; a code to defend each other; of that, he could respect. It was a better existence than the petty violence and cold cruelty, devoid of any sort of honor, of street life.

Knowing this about the man, these few facts, Leonardo built his plan to find the person who wished to disappear. To find someone, it was often best to go back to the beginning. To their roots. Often men revisited their past; reappearing in old neighborhoods, reengaging with old compatriots . . . perhaps there was a girl that he'd had involved himself with in the past that he'd want to see again.

Leo wasn't sure. All he knew was that he had to find this man. And bring the weight of righteous justice upon his head.

Casey sometimes would appear; sandwich in hand for him or just a soda or bottle of water, which he'd take with much gratitude; and together they'd track down dens of Purple Dragons, shaking them down for information. Casey knew of several places they could try.

His information led them to uncover several drug operations and one large ammunitions exchange, but of the man responsible for Mikey's kidnapping there was no information. He and Casey had investigated several hopeful locations where a mutant turtle could be held captive for any period of time without being discovered, locations that were safely guarded secrets among the gang members, but did not hold up against brutalized inquiry.

But nothing came of them. No sign that Mikey had ever been held there. No sign that anyone even remotely interested in capturing one of his brothers ever even squatted within. The gang members either knew nothing, or they made up details of some mysterious man hiding out in some vague locale that had a determined Leonardo tracking down, despite knowing in his heart that it was for nothing.

The docks were cold and empty. The expansive rail yards were devoid of anything that he could actually use in his hunt. He grew frustrated and steadily more jaded. A weariness and heaving sadness lingered over him that he could not shake.

He hadn't been home in over three weeks.

He yearned for reconciliation with his sensei. He yearned for his forgiveness. He hadn't spoken to anyone other than Donatello in all that time. Even then the conversation was clipped and cold and he suspected that Donatello was still angry with him for his weakness with Karai. Something that rested like a bitter pill in the back of his throat that he could neither dislodge nor swallow down.

He'd spoken to Don on the phone the previous morning; he'd reassured Leo that Mikey's bed rest had come to an end and he was recovering fairly as expected. Despite some trouble with him acting out in some bouts of uncharacteristic anger, all was going well at home. Raph was an almost constant annoying presence. Wherever Mikey was, Raph was nearby. He acted as coach as well as punching bag to Mikey's 'incidents'.

Don made no reference to April having come to stay with them. He made no reference to April at all. So when Casey happened to let slip that he missed April one night, Leo was surprised. Casey explained April's temporary relocation to the lair. A curl of something like suspicious worry slipped through his insides, but he pushed it away. He had to remain focused on the task at hand.

No matter how obscure or ridiculous, he could not allow any lead go unexplored. He was in single-minded determination to succeed where he had only failed before. But he was not a machine made of unerring bolts and gears. He was flesh and blood. And he was growing weary with his relentless pursuit of this ghost that had harmed his little brother so grievously. His methods slowly became more and more sloppy and uncoordinated. Dishonorable if he looked too closely, which he avoided doing. Eyes turned wild with fear of those he'd beaten to a pulp, the sound of squealing prostitutes and the ringing patter of gun fire haunted his insomniatic morning hours.

But he had to find the one responsible. If it cost him everything. He had to accomplish this simple task. He had to make this right. For Mikey. For her. He could not let all the sacrifice be for nothing. He would not allow that to happen.

He opened his hand.

The shriek of terror was replaced with the loud crunch of the Dragon's body hitting the delivery truck's roof, two stories below. He did not look to see if the man was still breathing. He didn't have time for such unimportant details. He had to keep searching for something tangible and credible he could use.

Casey grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. The slush piled gray and wet along the sides of his numb feet. Speaking from behind his mask, breathless from the battle he just finished, he said, "Leo, get a grip, man."

Leo, baring his teeth, brushed his hand roughly free. He shouldered past and stepped over the strewn about bodies; glancing to see if any of them were conscious so he could interrogate them.

Casey dropped his head and pushed the mask up over his head with the end of a cricket bat which was splintered and coated in a smear of crimson. "They're out. And so am I. I'm goin' home, bro."

Leo ignored him, kicking one young man with an orange mohawk hard in the side until he rolled over with a soft groan. Leo crouched, he heaved him up and with a sneer, checked the man's face. He was unconscious. Useless. This was getting him nowhere. Leo dropped him with a disgusted grunt.

"Didja hear me?" Casey sighed in frustration. He crossed over and stood behind Leo. "We've been at this for weeks, man. You barely eat, you hardly sleep – c'mon. Don'tcha think it's time to realize . . . I mean, they got nothin' to tell us."

Leo gazed out over the roof top, still crouching. His voice was low and hoarse from nonuse, "So what, then? You say I should just give up?" He stood up suddenly and spun on Casey; bringing his face within an inch of the man. Dark circles were only partially covered by the mask on his face. His eyes were hard and distant. Lost and haunted.

Casey had never seen his friend's brother like this before. So out of control. Wild.

"That's not an option for me."

"I'm not sayin' ta give up. I'm just sayin' maybe you should," he shrugged, still holding the cricket bat up, not putting it away just yet, in case his friend decided to get a little nutso on him, other hand held in a placating gesture, "head home and get a little sleep."

Leonardo made a disgusted sound and shook his head. "You don't get it." He turned away and saying under his breath, but Casey caught it, "There's no home for me until I find this guy."

Casey sighed and rubbed his brow. Right. He almost forgot that Leonardo had mentioned his father was a hard ass. Not in those exact words but, something like that. Casey knew something about fathers and the pressure of trying to do right by them. Before his was gunned down by Purple Dragons, he was a hard-case as well. Loving, but strict as hell. Mean when he felt his message wasn't getting through enough.

But Casey's mom had always explained that his dad loved him and wanted to keep him safe from all the ugly things in the world; and that sometimes the ugly things were too much for him to hold all by himself and he lost his grip a little. At least, that was what she'd told Casey when he was nine and nursing a black eye from his father's backhand one evening. But he'd forgiven him. Just like all the other times. He didn't mean it.

The world was just too ugly of a place for his dad handle on his own.

Rubbing his brow had him wincing. He glanced at his fingers and grimaced at the blood he found there. He never even felt the hit that split his brow.  _Damn. I need some sleep_. But he looked at his strange friend's slumped shoulders beneath the black worn coat he wore. The waver in his step. The guy was exhausted. Lost.

Casey understood not being able to let go of something important. Especially when other people you cared about were counting on you. But he missed April. He had only briefly spoken to her twice these past three and a half weeks and she'd been staying with Raph's family. Between his construction job during the day and running these crazy errands with Leonardo, he was spent. Done. But he knew he couldn't just turn his back on the guy.

But if he kept this up, one of them were gonna make a mistake. Mistakes doing this kind of work usually ended up getting someone killed or crippled.

He licked his bottom lip, sucked on it and got an idea. Maybe he could steer Leo in a different direction. He knew the Foot were hard to track down and maybe he could get some rest while Leo spent some time on the much less dangerous tracking and then doing surveillance of Foot soldiers. Then he could rejoin Leo once he'd finally figured out where they could ambush the Foot and maybe get some answers.

"Look, Leo, I think what I'm tryin' to say is that that Purple Dragons have given all the information we're gonna get from them. I think it's time to start focusin' on the Foot. Don't you?"

He stiffened, listening. Had he been avoiding this? With everything on the line? He wanted to believe that he'd been going about the search with precision and dedication. But a small part of his heart wondered if he had avoided the Foot because to see that uniform would remind him too painfully of the woman he had lost. If he was completely honest with himself, in full self-loathing, he would agree that there was a sliver of truth in that reluctance. In that fear. One does not tread confidently into a wall of fire when one has felt the anguish of burning flesh.

Still gazing over the expanse of rooftops, he nodded, surrendering, at last to what was needed.

Satisfied, Casey blew out a breath he was holding. He raised his thick, blood coated brows. "I'll catch ya later, then?"

Leo glanced over his shoulder. He nodded. Casey moved to go. A fluttering of anxiety made his stomach hurt. He paused and asked, "Will ya promise me you'll at least get some rest before going out again?"

Leo, stared at the ground. Then, reluctantly, he nodded again.

"Okay. Okay, then. I'll be waiting to hear from you. Take it easy, Leo." With that he was gone.

Leonardo stepped over to the edge of the roof line. He leaned heavily upon it. A slow sigh escaped from his lips. The weariness hung on him like cement blocks. The sun was making the night sky pink between the edges of the brown buildings turned gray in the dusky light of pre-morning.

He thought of Karai. Her dying in his arms as he held her so tight, as though holding on hard enough would somehow stop her soul from departing. How light she felt as though her body were made of feathers. How hard her limbs were when they'd sparred, how it seemed as though she were made of wiry steel and of her lovely smirking; smoldering fire made into female flesh.

He would never see her again. Not that smile, so playful and yet so wicked all at once; nor her eyes so deep and green, at turns jade and forest; mysterious and alluring. A pang of missing her, so sharp and acute that he held his chest and gasped, ripped through him.

The sound of scraping boots on the surface of the roof gave him no reason to turn, he assumed in his hazy, grief-stricken thoughts that Casey had forgotten one of his weapons. It wouldn't be the first time the man had to circle back to retrieve something he'd left behind. He sniffled softly but remained facing the city, unwilling to allow Casey to see his weakness; knowing his grief would be exposed, raw and open on his face. He had no strength to compose himself. He was too tired.

The whistle of the bullet was low and sweet. A lover's tease in the morning air. He never even heard the gunshot itself.

Leonardo frowned and stumbled forward as it struck his shell; grunting; feeling as though he'd been punched with a hammer. A dull ache swept through his back, followed by a burning sensation, like his veins were slowly catching fire. He spun around.

The man he'd tossed from the side of the building earlier had climbed up the fire escape to exact his revenge. A pistol in his right, shaking grip. Blood coated the entirety of his face, masking his expression into a grim caricature of gleeful evil. His opposite arm hung at an odd angle to his body.

Leo whipped a shuriken with his left hand, but not fast enough.

The second bullet tore into his upper right chest, knocking him back and over the edge of the parapet. He struck a balcony, rebounding up and over the railing and down into the alley below. He fell in a heavy heap and a pained gasp. A bright flash of pain rocked his body and then the world went black.

* * *

"Don't fuckin' touch me again, you got it?"

Raph backed up, hands held aloft. He was no longer shocked at Michelangelo's use of profanity for the slightest reason. Everyone, it seemed, did their best to ignore it. Though he'd been using the foul language more and more often regardless of whether there was reason for such hostility or not. Everything made him hostile. Every word, every movement.

But nothing upset Michelangelo more than when they'd try to help him with something.

"Sorry, Mikey-" The blazing cold in his stare had Raph sputtering to correct himself. "Mike. Michelangelo. Sorry. I was just tryin' ta . . . ta help ya there."

Michelangelo curled his lip up. "I don't need help," he snapped. "Not from you or anyone else. I can train by myself, so get lost."

"Mike, er, yeah, Mike, you're still recoverin'."

"Don said it was fine. I'm fine. Don's Mister Doctor Know-it-All, ain't he?"

"Yeah," Raph rubbed the back of his neck. "But he said only if you go easy and you ain't been goin' easy not for the last hour, Mikey-angelo." He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the mat beneath their feet to ignore his little brother's glare.

April stepped into the dojo, disrupting the tension, a tray of lemonade in her hands. "Hey, maybe time for a little break, okay?"

Mikey turned his shell to her. Most days he didn't speak to her besides asking for her to get him those pain killers every now and then, particularly at night. He pleaded and told her he needed them to keep the nightmares away.

Despite knowing that Don was unaware of his extra doses, she couldn't look herself in the mirror if she ignored Michelangelo's wide-eyed appeal for a decent night's sleep. She couldn't imagine the things he dreamed of after what he'd been put through. And if an extra little pill helped him make it through the night, than who was she to deny him that peace? Though, she didn't like going into the infirmary to fetch them, fearing to run into Donatello, but she did it because she wanted to help Mikey any way she could. So, she faced her fears and luckily, had yet to run into Donatello.

He punched the heavy bag a few more times. Raph watched helplessly next to it, arms held out to the sides as if making ready to catch his brother should he suddenly faint like some actress from a silent film. The tension hung in the air, thick and ugly. The look Mikey would shoot in Raphael's direction was one of pure loathing. It froze the breath in her throat.

She stood by watching the two of them. It had been this way for the past week or so. Once Mikey had finished with his period of bed rest and had started his rehabilitation, he'd become aggravated and frustrated by the littlest things. Raph hovered like a protective mama bear. Of course, that only served to anger Mikey further. He continually insisted that he was fine. Or that he didn't need anyone's help.

She had gone to Donatello to ask if there was anything they could do about Mikey's transition back into the pattern of being at home. Of being safe. She decided not to mention the fact that he'd been taking extra medicine to help him sleep, thinking if it came up, then she would let him know. They were only pain killers, after all.

* * *

She stood just inside the door, torn between the need to speak to him about Mikey and the old fears that held familiarity over her heart like an old photograph of a beloved relative. She had not directly spoken to Donatello since that first morning she'd dropped in; alone; nearly a month ago. It had seemed obvious, painfully so, that he was avoiding her, at first.

But over time, she discovered it was more of a disinterest in her, rather than some internal battle of will power over the need to be with her and the need for space from her. She didn't like the way her heart had pinched at the realization. She had steeled herself by noting it was for the best. She had a foundation of a healthy life to consider. She could not let all her hard work and sacrifice be toppled now by some silly infatuation that had consumed her teenaged life so long ago.

And yet, it had taken her a full night of tossing and turning, going over in her mind what she needed to say and how she needed to approach him before she was nearly ready to actually carry it out. Then it had taken another two days to build the courage to follow through. To see him and speak to him alone, in his room. Her heart was in her throat as she stood there with sweating palms.

She rubbed her hands onto her sleeves and rapped on the doorframe with the knuckles of one hand.

He didn't turn to look at her, merely straightened in his seat at the sound, shell facing her. She saw him set a delicate looking tool to one side on the table and then with his opposite hand, he reached up and flicked off the light attached to a head band that spanned the circumference of his head. He pulled the head piece off and set that to the other side of his workstation. Schematics and precisely lined plans were piled and stacked all around the table where he sat.

She tapped a second time.

He sighed, it was short and shallow, but a sigh, nonetheless. "What do you want?" the question directed to the wall in front of him.

She crossed her arms, rubbed them and stepped into the chill of the room. Though if it was the temperature he left it at for the many inventions and fussy electronics that made up the shelves and walls surrounding him or if it originated from his demeanor towards her, she wasn't sure.

All her memories of this room were livid with heat; molten, lustful and consuming. Nothing like it was now. She mustered her courage and stood directly behind him. The slight scent of ozone and metal along with something bitter and familiar stung her nose. Above that was his own musk, like the earthy scent of fresh turned soil in the early hours of a spring morning. Her mouth watered. Her vision blurred before it cleared.

She found her voice. Pushed forward with her mission to consult him as the medical personnel to this family that she counted as her own. "I'm worried about Mikey. Michelangelo. He's not himself."

"Oh?"

She licked her lips and moved to one side. She picked up the head piece and he stiffened. She set it back down carefully. He did not look at her. It hurt. She turned and leaned against the edge of the table. His body remained rigid and spoke with the silent language that her interruption was nothing but irritating and unwanted.

She rallied and added as though to clarify the situation, "He's not acting right."

This seized his attention with a force she had not counted on, nor was she prepared for the sudden shift between cool detachment and fiery, barely controlled fury. The chair was spinning in a lazy circle in the middle of the room, he'd stood up so fast. He was next to her, looming over her, towering with eyes cutting through her.

"And how's that?" he asked in a low, threatening voice that should it have thundered through the room would not have been more impactful against her fluttering heart.

She cringed back.

A whisper could be more powerful than a gale and Donatello's tone proved that as he went on in that same quiet voice, "Tell me how he is supposed to behave after having been put through that nightmare. The man kidnapped him, chained him like a beast, starved and beat him," his voice dropped to a near whisper, "assaulted him repeatedly, no doubt, and then tried to remove a highly sensitive, enormously crucial piece of his anatomy, only managing to mangle and disfigure him."

His eyes bounced between hers as she pressed her mouth into a tight line.

"I . . . I just," her voice wavered but she pressed on, determined not to be frightened by him; she loved him too much to be frightened; knew him too well to be intimidated. She straightened up, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye, unafraid, and sure enough he took a small half-step back. That tiny gesture of acquiescence spoke volumes to her. The fleeting glimpse of something there in his eyes beyond the smoldering anger, something that may have been regret . . . or guilt, she didn't know. But she made a mistake in her next choice of words and anything that exposed vulnerability or possibility was wiped away.

"I just want him to be healthy."

The sneer that crawled across his face was unpleasant. Cold. Disquieting. Her confidence withered.

He raised a hand and pointed to the door. _"Get out."_

She would note later that his hand shook.

In the safety of the temporary bed that Splinter had given her, she would remember that it shook. But at the time she could not think clearly through her gripping fright and instant remorse. And she scurried from him, skirting even his shadow as tears blurred her vision and she damned herself an idiot for her slip of the hated phrase that had been used as a defendable weapon to pry them apart all those years ago.

* * *

She set the tray down, stuck her hands in her pockets of the jeans she wore. "So, how ya feeling today, Mike?"

Raph glanced at her as she cut off the 'y' sound of his name just in time. He turned, having given up on trying to guard against any fainting spells that his brother might suddenly get possessed by and stooped for a glass of lemonade.

"Thanks, April."

She smiled at him.

Michelangelo continued to punish the heavy bag. Left, left. Right. Left, again. He clenched his jaw, only seeming to grow angrier. Side kick. It connected and he gasped. A grimace graced his face as he fell, stumbling back.

Raphael dropped his glass. It hit the others and shattered as April yelped. Raph grabbed at Michelangelo to stop his fall. Mikey squirmed and brought an elbow into Raph's mouth. Blood spurted and he grunted, still keeping Michelangelo upright.

"Gotcha, bro!"

Michelangelo writhed in his brother's clumsy grasp. "Lemme go! You fuckin' asshole! Let me go!"

To April's horror, Mikey twisted and threw a punch, connecting to Raphael's face. Then as his brother shook it off; righting himself, he followed up with a left hook. Raph lurched to the side and April got between them. Mikey snarled and April ducked, tucking her face down under one armpit so she wouldn't get hit.

"Stop!" Splinter's voice carried over the sound of growls and Raphael's insistence that he was fine as well as April's shouting for Mikey to calm down.

Michelangelo shoved April off him, she fell to the floor onto one thigh. Chest heaving, his face snapped from April, and his expression shifted to looking horrified and remorseful, to Raph, where it darkened. He pointed at his brother's bleeding face.

"I told you to back off me! I'm not a helpless baby!" he screamed and punching the heavy bag once more, he shouldered past them, skidding around the broken glass and spreading lemonade until he passed Master Splinter.

The old rat reached out for him. "My son, please. Calm yourself."

Michelangelo made a strangled sound and only hurried more quickly from the dojo. Limping as he went.

Splinter came up to April, as Raph helped her to stand. She stood by, holding onto one of Raph's arms. She was shaken but otherwise fine. His head raised up to see Raphael, rubbing his eyes with the back of his left hand. Blood trickled down the front of his chest from a wide gash in his bottom lip.

"Raphael, you are hurt."

He shook his head. "I deserve it."

Master Splinter shot a look at April. She shook her head and understanding that Splinter needed a moment, released Raphael's arm. "I'll get a towel."

Splinter nodded his thanks. She left.

After a moment, Raphael fell to his knees before his father. Splinter placed a claw upon his son's shoulder. He was doing his best to fight the tears, but they won out, twin thin streams traveled down his cheeks. His emotional son had been punishing himself every chance he got these past weeks. Weeks that were made up of days full of silent recriminations and angry outbursts. There was unbalance in their lives. Until the one responsible was served justice the disharmony would only grow. He knew that Michelangelo could not heal under these circumstances.

"You carry blame, but for the wrong reasons. You had a part to play in this . . . tragedy, yes. But you have done all you can to redeem yourself."

"Master Splinter." His voice was cracking, "Mikey hates me and I . . . I don't blame him. It's my fault he got taken. It's my fault he's so angry."

Splinter shook his head. "There were many factors the night your brother was stolen from us. Despite the desire to assume full blame, that does not rest on any one of your shoulders. More on some than others, yes. For among you, Leonardo is tasked with ensuring safety when my children venture from the safety of our lair. In this, he owns much of the blame, but even him, not all of it. That rests on the man responsible." He took a shuddering breath as Raphael gazed mournfully at him.

"But as far as Michelangelo's anger . . . No. No, my son. He is angry, yes. But not at you. He is angry at the one who has done this, but is unable to exact his rage upon the one who had wronged him. His fury grows larger but lies impotent within his heart. It crushes the light within him. Darkening him, even to us, his family."

Raphael considered his words. Mikey needed revenge. He understood that. But he wasn't sure how he could give his brother what he needed. "What can I do? What can I do to fix this an' make it better?"

Splinter absorbed his son's desire to help and it warmed his heart; this loyalty and love. He thought of Leonardo and his son's efforts. It had been nearly a month without his return. And Splinter felt the regret of taking his own anger and fears and frustrations out on one so young. He was foolish at times, too trusting, too naïve, but he was a product of a gentle and loving heart. It was not his fault that he was too willing to love, too quick to trust. He thought of his own rage at the wrongs that had been perpetrated against his youngest child and felt a renewed pang of remorse for being so hard on his eldest. For surely he was hurting as much as his other children were. If he could only tell him it was okay to come home, if only to rest for a while, to regroup, he would. He made his decision.

"I think it is time that you give Michelangelo some much needed breathing room."

"But . . . But Master Splinter, I . . ."

A shake of his head silenced Raphael. He pulled a handkerchief from his robe and handed it to Raphael to wipe the blood from his split lip. "Michelangelo is not the only brother that needs your assistance."

Raphael's fearful eyes rose up, he blinked under the unnerving, knowing gaze of his father and dropped them to the floor.

"I think it is time for you to fix what is broken between you and Leonardo. Go and assist your brother in this man's capture and punishment. But first, tell him to come home. Then the two of you shall go again to hunt this monster."

Raphael looked up again, then ducked his head, pressing the rag to his mouth. "Hai, Master Splinter."

He rose up as April reentered the dojo. "Mikey's in his room." She set to cleaning up the mess with a thanks from Master Splinter.

Together they moved out into the living room. The turnstiles shrieked as someone pushed through them. Raphael and Splinter's heads turned in unison as Leonardo stumbled and staggered into the room, lumbering down the steps until he fell forward onto his knees then onto his face.

"Leo!"

Splinter and Raphael rushed to his side, as they gathered him up, they saw his hands were coated in blood, his chest and right side of his black coat awash in crimson, sticky and thick. He groaned and moaned piteously as they moved him.

"Failed. I've . . ." he mumbled into Splinter's chest as his sensei pulled him close.

" _Donnie_!" Raphael's voice cracked. "Donnie, get your ass out here!"

"My son! What has happened?" He lifted one paw to find it covered in blood. "Raphael, help me."

Splinter and Raphael carried Leonardo into the infirmary as April and Mikey rushed into the main area of the lair.

"Is he okay?" Mikey shouted above the noise of everyone talking at once. No one paid him any attention as Leo was carried into the sick room under Donatello's sharp orders to be careful with him.

"Is he?"

April reached out and took Mikey's hand into hers. He jumped but then glanced at her and dropped his head. His fingers tightened around hers.

"It's going to be okay."

Her soothing reminded him of another woman who had promised him reassurance and rescue from terror. That did not end well. He swallowed and stared at April with wide eyes. She gave him a wavering smile and squeezed his fingers, her opposite hand covering his as she brought it up and gave it a little kiss.

"April," he said helplessly, beating back the wild panic building in his chest.

He feared for another flashback to overtake him. The terrifying moments that held his body in frozen stupor while his mind raced along with his heart; all the while reliving scenes from a horror movie. Scenes too terrible to have ever actually happened to him. But knowing all the time that they had. They  _had_. And he couldn't breathe and he couldn't scream. He could only tremble and shriek; locked in his mind while Malcolm held him down; while Malcolm drove him to madness in the bathwater; while Malcolm savagely beat him and raped him with his nunchucks; his babies. He hadn't been able to stomach the sight of the extra pair in the dojo.

Raphael had hidden them away with a bemused, almost hurt, look on his face, but no questions asked.

He took in a sharp breath. April's fingertips were brushing his opposite arm. Her hand was squeezing his sweating palm. He was not some madman's captive here. He was home. Surrounded by people that loved him. He had to believe that this time it would be okay, as promised. He had to. He had to.

"Donatello will help him. Don knows what to do," she said with warm confidence that made him almost believe it; bringing him out of the near plummet into another flashback. Mikey blinked slowly, absorbing her words of comfort. Drinking them in.

"He's going to be okay, Mikey."

He made a soft choked sound. For once he did not mind the endearment. For once that name did not remind him of Malcolm, but of who he once was, what he once meant to April and his brothers. He wasn't sure if he could ever be that again, but in that moment, in his fear for Leonardo's safety, he wanted to believe that everything could go back to normal again. That he could just be a kid again and not be afraid anymore. Not be afraid that he wasn't good enough, strong enough. That everything really would be okay.

Just this once.

He turned and allowed April to embrace him. He started to shake as she soothed him. The first tears since he'd come back, since he first fully awakened back in the security of his home broke loose. It felt forced. An eruption. Painful.

It felt like surfacing.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Didn't see that comin' didja!? LOL Well, let's just say a certain raving lunatic makes his reappearance in the next chapter. hehee


	27. From Dreams

He sat on the rim of a grassy outcropping near the edge of a roiling ocean, black and furious. It beat against the jagged shore. Pounded it with fists of foam and spray. Roaring and thundering. Above, the sky was painted in streaks of muted scarlet and deepening violet. Between the steel-gray clouds an expanse of inky space winked down at him, like a blank eye of a forgotten god. 

Below this, apart from this explosive scenery, he sat. Happy and content, he sat. Removed and indifferent to the raging elements, untouched by their impotent fury. No celestial judgment could take from him this moment of bliss. This idealized moment, refined and extracted from the very coldest reaches of his unfathomable hollow of a soul. He possessed one. Just as all men did. A soul as worthy of love as any other, more so, in his opinion, actually. He deserved this. He earned it. 

In smug complacency, he sat. The sand cool between his toes, pants rolled up to his calves.

Between his splayed legs, his fingers drummed lightly against his seat, convex beneath his bottom, and he hummed his favorite tune along with the beat. Rubbed smooth and shiny with oil, it was so useful as an impromptu resting place for a weary lover as he himself was. He ceased in his fingertip pattering along with his humming. Felt the texture while he mused on its usefulness for a variety of imagined applications. The divides and scutes lined with tiny ridges cutting a mesmerizing pattern throughout that he soon found himself tracing with his fingertip. Maybe he could use it as a planter. Or a bowl for decorative fruit.

He glanced down at the tawny brown rolled ridge of the edge. It was beautiful, he supposed, in its own way, with these designs. With a resigned sigh, he admitted to himself that despite its aesthetic pleasure, the carapace was an imperfection and ultimately it marred his sublime loveliness. More than that, it had gotten in his way. Like that wretched tail. It had to be removed.

Malcolm glanced down to his left where his lover lay, still as death but for the gentle panting. His heart grew warm and his loins grew enflamed with lust with just this swift stolen observation. His Dream Lover.

On top of a bed of snow-white wild flowers and the softest scrub grass along the shore, lay Michelangelo. His face was turned away, as far as it could go, tendons in his neck extended and strained, as if examining something far down and away on the wind swept beach they sat above. His body lay in a state of relaxed repose, for the most part, and why shouldn't he be?

Malcolm smiled down at him. A thrill of joy went through him. For to gaze upon his Dream Lover was like gazing at a living miracle. Exquisite. Lovely. Perfection.

Now that his shell was removed and the plates of his plastron carefully carved free from his torso, leaving only the thinnest film of nearly translucent skin covering the delightful internal organs, Michelangelo looked to Malcolm as an angel descended from heaven. A god brought to Earth. A god humbled and sacrificed. Captured and bound by the greater force of love and love's twin: necessity. Because Malcolm did not only love and exist to love this embodiment of perfection; Michelangelo was necessary to Malcolm. Of that there was no doubt.

He could not live without Mikey's divine light. A light that shone brightest through the tears and laughter. Malcolm coaxed both of these from him, time and again. The smiling through the brittle tears. The anguish and pleasure. He was becoming a master at extracting these emotions from his lover.

And though organs, livid and raw with their own artistic fragile beauty, could be seen doing their primal industry of keeping his Dream Lover a living thing, Malcolm could not help but think on Michelangelo as something ethereal and immortal. He could not die. No. He could not. No matter how Malcolm molded him or scoured him to reveal that inner light, to produce it in its purest form, straight from the center of him. No. He endured. As gods do.

Ever lovely and exacting grace, a picture of suffering; his anguish served to feed Malcolm's carnal necessity. His yearning to possess Michelangelo's light and consume it was all that he knew and understood. He existed only within his lover. And his lover thrived under his attentions. As it was meant to be. As it was always meant to be. As it would always continue to be.

"Look at me, Lover."

Pearls of moisture, sweat and beads from the raging seas just beyond them, dotted his lover's flesh. His ankles and wrists were bound and secured by chains latched onto metal eye rings connected to posts driven deep into the ground.

Michelangelo jolted and cringed at the sound of his voice. The effect warmed Malcolm and his smile grew wider. The god, so wondrous, so afraid. He never looked more beautiful.

"I said, look at me."

Eyes round and wild rolled up and back, his jaw tensed and clenching, Mikey's head turned. He shuddered once and as Malcolm reached down to stroke his jaw, a thick burst of vomit erupted from his mouth.

A scream cut through the thunderous roar of the ocean beyond.

Malcolm thrashed where he lay, arms and legs flailing as they struck the base boards and the overhead beams of the narrow attic. The filthy clothes he'd spent the last month in, clung to his sweat soaked chest and arm pits. Red rimmed eyes darted and searched the dimly lit interior, confused, afraid. Lost.

Where? Where was he?

"Mikey?" Malcolm croaked. "Dream Lover?"

But he was alone. He rested the side of his hand against his forehead. He felt jittery and shaken.

Beyond the smudged window of the attic storm clouds gathered, blotting out the morning sun, muting the light to a palsy gray. His heart raced and began to slow. His mind grasped at the fading images of the dream as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He remembered now.

It had been days that he lay in morose defeat. Plotting and devising new tricks, new methods to regain what was taken from him. But time and again he came up against the stone wall that was the barrier to his success. Those brothers. Those beasts that carried his gentle lover away. Stealing him from the arms of the only one who would give anything and everything to keep him safe.

The days had somehow turned to weeks. And he sat within his cavernous den like some moldering demon, lost to the world in his planning and eventual despair.

When it came right down to it, it had been luck, that mistress, coy and deceitful, that brought him and Michelangelo together. Karai with her sluttish behavior had brought him into direct contact with the child. Her own distraction served to provide him with the opportune moment to act. And pounce on it, he did. There was nothing but divine serendipity that was in the works that night. For all his planning, for all his careful plotting, it had been a moment, unexpected and ripe, that had dropped into his lap. Malcolm knew this. As he also knew that the invisible seraphim that had placed Michelangelo into his grasp would not work to his advantage again if he remained locked in his depression, locked away from the obstacles that remain between him and his rightful lover.

He sat up and ran a grimy hand over an equally grimy face. Enough wallowing in piteous sorrow. He needed to prepare. He glanced down at his thin frame and dirty clothes. This would not do. He needed to clean himself up, make himself presentable. He needed to be proactive and productive. But first a bath and something to eat.

Then, he would begin the hunt renewed and refreshed. He would not cease in his search. He would not give up. Nothing would restrain him in this quest to retrieve what was taken from him. Eventually emerging as the hero to his lover's plight.

Malcolm smiled as he worked open the hatch and unfolded the stairs leading out of the attic down into the second story of the house. His legs were weak as he stepped down.

He imagined the look of relief and joy that would be on his lover's sweet face when he saw him again. He took in a breath and stretched. How grateful he would be to be reunited with his destiny. Malcolm clapped the dust from his torso and rubbed his palms together. He would be so willing . . . to do anything and everything. A shiver of anticipation and delight raced over Malcolm. It was as if he shed the skin of despair and found beneath it a raw and glistening flesh full of eagerness and determination.

Yes. It was a new day. And new opportunities were waiting to be discovered and acted upon. Nothing would stop him from being the hero.

"I'm sorry I waited so long. But I'm ready now. I'm going to rescue you, my love. I'm coming."

* * *

Mikey thrashed. He gripped and pulled at the blanket covering him. He growled and kicked, bucked and snarled as he tumbled over the side of his bed, slammed into the floor and rolled to his stomach. Soft hands rested on his shoulder and his face snapped to the side as he bared his teeth.

April skidded back before teeth tore through flesh, a look of shock quickly replaced with resolute calm.

He frowned at her, seeing her, but seeing past her, still partially in the dream or flashback or whatever half world had him trapped within. She put up her hand and kneeling, leaned closer to him by inches.

"Michelangelo," she said quietly.

He closed his eyes and then stared at the floor between his splayed fingers. Panting. She moved closer, but did not touch him.

"You're home. Remember? You're home now."

He blinked rapidly and she could see his face softening. When he turned his face and looked at her, his eyes were glassy but focused. Full of worry and confusion.

"I'm-I'm home?" Then, "I'm home." A sigh, a deeper breath. "I'm . . . sorry."

April sidled closer to him. With care, she draped her arm around him as he sat up. The two of them leaned against the side of his bed. He plucked at the blanket tangled around his torso and legs, then gave up and left it as it was. He leaned his head against her shoulder. She felt the wetness before she even realized he was crying.

"Mikey," she whispered and he shook his head, nuzzling closer.

A few minutes passed and the silence of the room was punctuated by his broken, hitching breaths. She sat next to him and gave him quiet comfort as best as she could. Keeping still. Alert to any indication through body language that he needed anything other than her soft form to cushion the storm raging and trapped within his body.

It had been like this every night after the amputation of his tail. The days were marked by hostility and uncharacteristic anger. The nights, when he was not drugged to a point of nearly being unconscious, were fractured by his nightmares. Sometimes he'd awaken; shocked, frightened, trembling and she'd be there as he reached out in the darkness, pulling on her and holding her like a stuffed animal to ward against the monsters in the shadows.

Most nights, when he actually slept, he awoke from his terrors with incoherent pleas; babbling jumbled nonsense about his nunchucks and blood; promising he would not vomit again all the while shaking violently from head to toe. Other nights erupted with raging outbursts followed by an eerie stillness until he'd break the tension with an uneven exhale full of resignation and crawl beneath his blankets to try to seek some peace in sleep once more.

But the worst of all were the nights when the stillness was interrupted with his voice, small and lost, calling out for his brothers.

Sometimes it was just for Leonardo. For him to save him. Sometimes he called for Raphael and Donnie. Sometimes he'd be asking for help and sometimes he'd be apologizing. But for what, April could not guess. It was these nights that had April pacing just outside his bedroom door, unable to sit by and listen to the heartbreaking sound of his voice calling softly for his brothers in that childlike voice full of fear.

These nights she was grateful that it was she who stayed with Mikey and not one of his brothers. She could not imagine what this would do to them. They were each suffering more than they could bear. And Leonardo? Something like this would drive him to madness; destroying him with guilt. He was already carrying too much between Splinter and his own regrets.

She was not the first to hold vigil in his room. It had been Raph at first, but that did not last longer than the first night. When Mikey awoke to the solid and hulking form of his brother hovering so close to his bed he had shrieked and fought and screamed until everyone crowded into the small bedroom and pulled Raphael, face wet with tears, pleading with his brother that he wouldn't hurt him, reassuring everyone that he didn't do anything, was just trying to help, from the room out into the living space and away from Michelangelo.

Splinter had to explain again and again to his emotionally bruised son that Michelangelo rejected his presence simply because he needed someone small and unimposing next to him at night. He was suffering something none of them could understand nor imagine and Raphael could not take it personally.

But he had. How could he not?

Leo was recovering from the gun shot to his shoulder, which had thankfully merely grazed him. And the small caliber bullet that Donatello had just barely managed to free from the back of his shell had thankfully not hit anything devastating or life threatening. He was tender and sore. His arm was in a sling. It had been nearly a week since he'd staggered home and Donatello tended his wounds. It had taken Splinter's strict orders to keep him at the lair, for he continued to aggravate his injuries by attempting to leave to continue his hunt.

When Mikey learned what Leonardo had been up to, what Leonardo was tasked with, he had pleaded with his brothers to forget what had happened to him. To just let it be. He couldn't risk Malcolm catching any of them. If anything it should be up to him to hunt this monster down and deliver revenge.

But while in the daylight, his thoughts circled the possibility of getting closure and maybe even some cruel satisfaction with that act, the dark of the night reduced him to a childlike state of terror. And the nightmares descended with brutal force.

Mikey sniffled and shook. Finally, he eased back, hiccupping and making small strangled sounds as he did his best to smother any further bouts of sobbing. He wiped his cheeks and eyes with the heels of his hands, switching to the backs of them when his palms grew too wet to be effective. He glanced at her and dropped his eyes. A smile, wavering and embarrassed passed over his face and morphed into a grimace.

His voice was distended and raw, tremulous, "Sorry. Sorry about waking you, April. Again."

She shook her head. He stared out into the room. She twisted around and picked up a glass of water from the nightstand. She handed it to him and he looked at it as if he didn't know what it was. His eyes raised to hers.

"I know you said . . . that I needed to ease off the, uh, meds. But do you think . . . maybe tonight? To help me get back to sleep?"

She shook her head and chewed on her bottom lip. "I don't think that's a good idea, hon. Besides, Don has locked everything up. He was getting worried. Besides . . . the, uh, supply was getting low and he needed to use some for Leonardo's injury."

Mikey huffed. He cradled his forehead against his finger and thumb. He swore under his breath and to her surprise, chuckled.

"Nothing can be easy."

She didn't know what to say to that.

His voice was pleading, almost whining, "I just need some sleep."

He dropped his hand down in his lap and sneered at her. She blinked at the change in his demeanor, but was not surprised, mood swings like this were a common occurrence with him.

"You'd think my brothers would at least help me get to sleep. Then I wouldn't be waking everyone up with my whiny ass crying. Like a baby." His voice caught and he dropped his head; picking at the blanket.

"Don't be angry. It's for the best. You were getting too dependent on those pills."

He huffed through his nose. "So what."

"It wouldn't be healthy."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "I guess you'd be the expert on that. After all, you broke his heart to be," he mimed quotation marks in the air, his lip curled and in a mocking voice he said, "healthy."

His attempt to hurt her was brushed away. This wasn't the first time Mikey tried to lash out at her; she would not rise to his bait. He needed her to be strong and calm. "I think what would help more . . . is if you talked to someone."

A panicked look flashed over his face and it vanished. Replaced with the narrowed-eyed angry look that gave him a resemblance to Raph that was uncanny.

"Yeah. That's just what I need."

"I think it is."

He crossed his arms protectively and looked away. April rearranged how she was sitting, now on her folded legs, hands on her lap.

"Really, Mikey," calling him by the nickname was something only she was allowed to do and she took it as a small victory in getting through to him. "Going through something as bad as you've gone through . . . it can help to talk about it."

"I don't think so." But he fell silent and considered her words, then shook his head, going on in a quiet voice, "They already think I'm useless and weak." Hesitantly, he glanced up at her. "I couldn't tell them."

The moment was fragile at best and having gone through her own countless sessions of therapy, she had learned a useful skill, one she had no idea she would ever need. Those sessions had trained her on the gentle pause, the breath-holding anticipatory waiting for the patient to open up. No pressure. No urging. Just time held still, in the hands of the therapist. Everything paused just for the patient. Taking time out of the equation. Giving room and limitless space to breathe it out before opening the gates to all the hidden and painful things held at bay.

Surely, April knew this role. And if she were to step back and view all of her life with a critical eye, she may have seen what had happened to her before - the obsession, the loss, the pain and suffering, the separation and healing - was merely stepping stones to this crucial hour. Deliberate and preplanned by some unseen force of fate or destiny or god. A slow and steady collection of experiences to fill her with readiness for this instance when her dearest friend would need her the most. When his very life depended on her ability to handle this moment.

Her eyes softened as his tongue ran over his bottom lip. Her head inclined forward as he shifted where he sat. And when his eyes rose to meet hers again she knew.

He would tell her.

It would be her curse and her burden and her honor to take from him the secrets of his torment and pain. She would need to carry this with her the rest of her days. Carry it and protect it and shield it from the light. But in doing so, he would never have to hold this alone again. Two would carry this part of the burden. Even as one endured the reality of it, two could progress forward on the path to healing. Two could brace against the terrors of the past and one could protect the other from the demons of that suffering.

The hours passed and Michelangelo's story unfolded.

Tears blinded her, blending with his own; at times they clung to each other, other times he broke away, shivering in impotent rage; he paced and tore at the blanket until great shreds were all that was left of the cotton material. He was on his knees, face flushed; he was raging at the ceiling in a hoarse whisper, manic and nearly insane as he blurted his need for revenge; face pale and eyes burning with fire of hatred as he swore it would never happen to him again; his helplessness as he crawled before her, wrapping her in his arms and trembling like a child, moaning; wishing it had never happened; asking her why did it happen to him; punching the floor and shuddering as he bit back the scream.

All of this played out before her; she experienced it all, inside and out, she was set afire with empathy and longing for revenge herself. Her heart raced and her throat closed tight. Her palms grew clammy and she found herself wringing her hands together as her great aunt used to after her father had had his stroke.

When the morning came, she was ashen and gray. Hollow and yet filled to the brim and overflowing with the weight of his misery. Mikey, curled in her lap, snored gently; exhausted and spent, sleeping peacefully, though, for the past two hours.

The door cracked open and she raised her bloodshot eyes to see Donatello staring down at her, a slight frown puckered around the corners of his eyes as he took in the scene. She took one hitching intake of breath and in that moment, something softened in his gaze as he looked at her. He crossed the room without a sound and eased Mikey off of her and up into his bed. His younger sibling rolled on his side as Donatello pulled a fresh blanket from under the bed and covered him.

Then he turned to April, hugging herself and shaken on the floor.

He blinked at her and slowly reached out his hand to help her stand; his thumb caressing the back of her hand in a tiny gesture of affection and her heart was in her throat.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I really hoped you enjoyed this chapter with its glimpse into Malcolm and his dreams (future plans) for Mikey.


	28. Bonds Bleeding but Unbroken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little sneak actually doesn't appear in this chapter - he had to wait until the next one - but I'm sure you'll see why - some things needed to be straightened out a bit before . . . well . . . before. ;)

_'I'll tell you one thing – we ain't gonna change much._

_The sun still rises – even with the pain._

_I'll tell you one thing, we ain't gonna change, love._

_The sun still rises – even through the rain._

_Can we go on, like it once was? Can we go on, like it once was?_

_Everybody feels a little crazy - Like it once was - Everybody feels a little crazy_

_Like it once was . . ._

_Can we go on like it once was? –_  The Head and the Heart, from the song  _Another Story_

 

* * *

Raphael stood, arms crossed, leaning on the door-frame as Leonardo strapped his swords on. He grimaced and gingerly eased the wide belt up and over his bandaged shoulder. He fidgeted inside the fabric sling and rolled his joint around, clenching his jaw and then straightened up. Irritated, he shrugged off the sling and tossed it across the room. Keeping his right arm close to his body, he shot Raphael a quick glance and strode past him, ignoring the look of distress as Raph eyed the sling and his arm.

Master Splinter rose up from the chair in the living room as the brothers headed towards the turnstiles to leave. "My son, a word."

Leonardo hesitated then turned. Raphael moved towards Splinter and their sensei shook his head. Raph nodded and pivoted back to the exit. "Meet you topside."

Leonardo crossed the few feet to stand in front of Master Splinter. His palms grew sweaty as he placed one fist in the opposite palm and bowed. The motion made his right shoulder send a spike of pain up through the side of his neck, but he brushed it away.

They hadn't spoken since he'd arrived home, another failure hanging over his head, another dishonor brought before his father. He had not found Mikey's tormentor. He had not brought justice to the man that had injured his family so grievously. He had come home despite his master making it clear that he was unwelcome without results. Leonardo braced himself for a reprimand.

Hoping to assuage his father's obvious disappointment in him, he quickly started by saying, "I will not return home again without the man responsible having been taken care of, Master Splinter."

"I am sure you will fulfill your duty in this. However, before you go, I wish to apologize to you."

Leo started. He blinked as his mouth went dry, ducking his head.

Splinter's eyes were moist as he gazed up at his bewildered son. "I placed the weight of shame upon your shoulders, when it was a shame for my own inadequacies in protecting my family." He turned and motioned for Leonardo to sit.

Leo glanced over his shoulder to the exit of the lair then back as Splinter sat down. He remained standing where he was. "Father, you owe me no apology."

Splinter glanced up to interrupt him, but Leonardo would not allow him to. He went on in a hurried voice, "I-I have failed our family . . . I should have never left my brothers' sides that night. I was acting out of a selfish . . . a selfish desire. I have . . . learned a valuable lesson, one I will never fail to adhere to."

Here he paused and swallowed, fighting back the image of her on the roof, the strained joy that leapt in his heart when he knew she'd been so close the entire night, watching him, wondering if she was hoping to speak to him alone, maybe to plan another secret meeting. It had been so long since their last one. He had missed her terribly. When all along it was not he that she was hoping to see.

Or was it? Things had become so tangled and confused that he wasn't sure what to believe any longer.

Bitterness and regret pinched his thrumming heart. He'd been such a fool on so many, many things. And somehow, without realizing it, his own private wishes and silly hopes had dragged Raphael under, involved him to a point of no return and then Michelangelo suffered horribly because of his interest in Karai. His father owed him no such apology. This was entirely his fault.

It started with the mistake of falling in love. One he would never repeat.

"Leonardo," Splinter started.

But Leo continued on. "There is no room for anything but dedication to my family. I will never allow outside . . . distractions to compromise my loyalty or focus. Not ever again."

Splinter sighed. Leonardo was his most stubborn child. Once his mind became trained on something, he pursued it with dogged determination until the object or skill or interest was mastered or fully understood and under control. Even Raphael would eventually give up on a pursuit or interest in time. But not Leonardo. Not until he was satisfied with the conquering of it.

He should have never placed blame wholly on one who would so readily accept it and carry it to its end. Splinter could not fix what had been set in motion. Leonardo would see this to the end. He only hoped that the cost would not be so great.

Something else occurred to him then. Regarding the kunoichi, Karai. Considering his son's temperament and obsessive need to see things to their natural endings, love for this child would come as a disaster. An unrequited love for one such as Leonardo would be nothing short of devastation.

Slowly, he gazed up at his son with knowing eyes. Reading the grief written in his son's posture, in his storm-colored eyes, understanding for the first time how much that kunoichi's death had affected him. Whether he approved or did not, his son had loved her. The poor foolish boy. His sincerest child.

He knew not all the particulars but he knew enough of what had caused the terrible strain between him and Raphael. Leonardo had stumbled upon something impossible in his youth. He'd hung on to it with his obsessive, quiet nature, no doubt hoping for some romantic resolution, and some fruition of his deep longing only to have lost her. First to his brother then to death.

Would the world and the fates ever be kind to his lost boys? Splinter knew the answer to that.

Splinter dropped his head and nodded his understanding to Leonardo. He trusted that his son's words were true, if only because he knew his son would not love another as he did Karai for the rest of his days. That sent a mixed wave of relief and sorrow through him.

He did not want his children to be unhappy. Quite the opposite. He wanted their lives filled with purpose and satisfaction. Yet, they had to keep from the trappings of human affairs. They were like them but not entirely. Their place was in the shadows. It was just the plotting of destiny. They could never be part of that world. Not in the way his son may have hoped. Leonardo had learned this lesson in the most painful way possible.

"Go then, mend things between you and your brother as you hunt the man responsible for Michelangelo's suffering."

"I-I will try," he replied with dread settling in his heart. He was sure that Raphael hated him. Sure that Michelangelo and Donatello hated him as well. But unsure who of his brothers hated him more, thinking that of his family, no one despised him more than he did himself.

Leonardo gave him a stiff bow and wheeled around and hurried away.

* * *

April sat in the computer chair, the seat worn to a comfortable lumpiness from Donatello spending more time there than anywhere else in the lair.

With a determined focus, she kept her mind from traveling to the memories that this chair brought back to her. Of his long, toned thighs spreading open as she slid over the front of him, the way his breath hitched in sweet anticipation, as she eased down to tease the rigid flesh already straining to meet her willing mouth, tongue, lips; hands eager to stroke and pet.

His soft moaning pleas for her not to stop as she toyed with his beautiful body; the taste of him like renewal and salted caramel, like salvation and steel, like love and lust and forever.

_April, oh April. D-Don't stop. Please. Oh, please, please, please._

April shook her head, cursing internally at herself. She was too tired to think like this. Felt so much older than that girl who had lost herself in Donatello's mysteries. And now what was left of her was aged and wary, brittle and fretful, something held together by repeated phrases that were slowly making less and less sense to her.

Last night, April knew she had done a good thing for Mikey. Just being there for him, listening. But it was so terrible, the tale he relayed to her. So awful that she did not want to accept that it wasn't just a nightmare, that it wasn't just some story meant to warn or terrify, that it wasn't her friend's life for three days and nights. She gripped the sides of the hot mug and relished the sensation of the heat coming through her fingers.

She was too worn down about Michelangelo's confession. Too raw from absorbing his pain, too exhausted from taking the weight of the tale from him. Too numb from the horrors of it all. Thoughts of past sexual encounters with Donatello should be the last thing on her mind. She chastised herself internally. 

 _What is wrong with me?_  

And yet. Those fuzzy memories hailed to her like a comforting presence, like an escape hatch slipping open, offering her freedom from the awful reality she found herself immersed in. What she wouldn't give to fall into his arms again and feel the totality of his adoration, feel the warmth of his protective love enveloping her, body and soul? When had she ever felt as safe? As at peace, than when they had finished, spent each other's energies out until they could only languish in the heavy, sweet satisfaction of just being together; bodies molded as though they could not be separated. Not by any hand of man or god. Not by any judgment or suspicious jealous eye.

No. The only thing that could have come between them, was her. And her choice ultimately broke the bond, severed it. Slashed it and rendered it irreparable.

For here they were, what was once one was two. What was once identical in breath and thought and heartbeat and spirit was rent and shredded; pieces cast aside; fragments of their love caught adrift in the wilds and winds of despair and loss; to scatter, becoming in time, lost and beyond recollection and reparation.

She cradled a steaming mug of coffee between two hands, propped on her thighs. Her eyes felt raw from crying and though they burned with the sting of building tears, there were really none left to shed.

She wondered if he missed her. Sitting here now, so close to him, she never felt his absence more keenly. And she  _missed_  him. She missed him terribly. She glanced up.

Head lowered, body positioned so that it was strategically as far away from touching her as possible in the narrow room, Donatello carefully tidied up around her. Neither of them had really said a word to each other since he led her from Michelangelo's room to the lab. He had indicated for her to sit and then shortly after, produced and handed to her a fresh cup of coffee from the small machine he kept plugged in on his work table. He'd muttered an apology about not having cream or sugar available, but April was still in the numb shock of the reverberations of Mikey's tale to really acknowledge that he'd said anything at all to her.

He stacked a pile of schematics and tapped the edge onto the table before laying them back down where they originally sat. He cleared his throat and she dropped her gaze away.

But out of the corner of her eye she followed his movements. As if just realizing that it was something else he could do, he busied himself with gathering and then placing pens, exact-o knives and several small rulers into a bin, then he fidgeted where he stood. He seemed to have run out of menial things to organize.

He glanced at her over one shoulder, then turned and crossed to the small cot propped along the bricks near his work table.

She raised her head and watched him over her shoulder. He stared at it for a moment and she wondered if he remembered those long nights that they lay tangled in each other's limbs on that very cot. Under each other, over, side to side. Elbows, knees, wrists, throat and chest, stomach and hollow clavicle. Lines of sweat tracing over curves and valleys, lingering in dips and running over creases to pool before being lapped by heated tongue or kissed away by swollen lips.

Idly, she wondered if the mattress was the same. If the heady scent of their mingled sweat and lovemaking still lingered after all these years. If he relished that fading reminder of love languishing in lust and heat, of desire joined with exultation and discovery. Again, April banished the thoughts as her face grew warm and her eyes burned even more painfully.

He turned and sat heavily on the edge and braced his elbows on top of his thighs, tenting his fingertips together pointed at the floor. April bit her bottom lip and decided that he probably burned the old mattress along with all the other mementos that she had given him that were nowhere to be found among the tools, papers and general disarray of his lab. It was as though she had never stepped foot in this room before. And she never felt more oddly out of place in a room that was once held all the fascination and pleasure that life could offer her, than as she did now, sitting in his computer chair; only feet away from the one that she loved like no other, not before, not ever since.

That forsaken love rose between them like a wandering specter, heavy and invisible, but oppressively there; a silent banshee howling for reunion with its long lost voice.

Using her toes she turned the chair around so she could look at him. While he kept his gaze to the ground she was afforded the opportunity to really look at him. And though she felt afraid for some reason, she wanted to take this chance to observe him. His shoulders were broader than when she last ran her fingers up and around the narrow curve of the musculature there, hidden by the frayed lab coat he seemed to often wear these days. The sleeves were bunched but covered the sweeping lines of his arms completely. Her eyes skittered over the curve of his calf and knee pad, up swiftly past his mid-section, not allowing herself, not trusting her eyes to linger too long there, but up again to his face. Her eyes took in the changes she noted. His jaw was fuller.

He seemed overall in good health, yet the last few weeks of stress and worry had given him a gaunt look, shadows played across hollows that she knew where not there before. Weary and resigned, he sat. She wondered what it was that he was surrendering to. The reality of what his brother had been put through? Maybe he wished to be alone. If her presence in his lab was a distraction and whether that in itself was a good thing or bad.

April debated getting up and leaving him to his thoughts.

The phone buzzed in her pocket, making her jump. The coffee sloshed with her movement. He raised chocolate brown eyes as she fumbled and placed the mug near his laptop behind her and pulled the phone free. Seeing Casey's number lit across the screen, she shot a guilty look to Donatello who seemed to have guessed who was calling her. He dropped his eyes and turned his face a little to one side, an expression of polite disinterest masking the initial disgust that had flashed over it.

She ignored the call.

After a moment, he risked looking at her. "Don't mind me. If you need to take that, by all means," he said and his voice held no hint of sarcasm.

"It . . . It wasn't anything important."

He leveled a look at her that held a slightly curious glint. The blank mask returned. "Did Mikey ask for the pills again?"

She straightened up and rubbed her hands on her thighs, holding the phone between them. She nodded as she sucked her lips. "I told him that he needed to ease off them. It was getting out of hand."

"Four a night. Sometimes more." Donatello sighed.

She nodded. He gave her an appraising gaze.

"He told you what happened to him." It wasn't a question.

She closed her eyes. "Yes," she breathed. Her shaking hands played with the phone between her fingers. "It's bad. Really, really bad. He . . . He told me everything that was done to h-him. Don, it was awful. Horrible." Her stomach rolled and she had to stop talking, instead she focused on breathing more steadily.

Donatello dropped his head into one hand and rubbed his forehead furiously. Thinking. Without looking at her he said, "I guessed as much. He's been healing on schedule. But . . . his attitude. He hasn't been the same. He's been so angry," he huffed a bitter laugh, "More like Raph than himself."

"He needs help."

"I know. I know that," he spat with more than a little frustration lacing his brittle words. He stood up abruptly. He crossed his arms and paced. Tension filled the air and April chewed on her bottom lip.

"What can I do? I can set bones, stitch arteries," he shook his head. "This is . . . beyond me. And it's not like we can hire someone to come down here and talk to him. A therapist . . ." he shook his head in dismay and swore under his breath. "Maybe . . ." he stopped, thinking hard. "Maybe, Master Splinter can . . . I don't know, meditate with him, or-or talk to him about it. Help him deal with it. Come to some leveling out between his physical recovery and emotional . . ."

April was already shaking her head. "No. No, Donnie. He didn't want you guys to know."

He shot her an exasperated look. "How can we help him then?"

"I don't think you can."

He slapped the sides of his legs in irritation. "That doesn't help anything, April."

She visibly flinched at him saying her name. It had been so long since he'd spoken it aloud. Echoes of the past, his murmuring it over and over, his voice thick and panting, repeating it in her ear as he ran his hands over her, as he drove deeper . . . She dropped her forehead into her palms and dragged her fingernails through her hair.

She refocused.

"He talked to me. I can try to help him. I have some experience with therapy and therapists." She paused and allowed the words to permeate the air between them. She kept her eyes carefully trained away from him. If there was anything in his look, in his body language, she didn't want to see it or hear it. Not now. Thankfully, he made no comment. But she wished she could read his mind. Even if it was bad, then at least she'd know. She'd know what she already understood. He had to hate her. She hated herself for what she'd done to him.

His face was blank as he stared at the cot that he'd just vacated. "He opened up to you, April, because he feels safe with you," Don said quietly, still staring at the cot. "I understand," he added and turned his face towards her. "You do that . . . to people."

She felt her heart jump and stumble as the intense sorrow and yearning was unveiled to her as well as all the terrible cost of what she'd done to him. Suppressing a cry, she stood up and took two steps before falling into his arms.

He caught her but turned his face away as her hands moved up to cradle his cheeks. His body went rigid and cold.

"Don, I-I -" she started in a panicked, hurried, breathless voice. Knowing that she'd gone too far, already he was pulling away from her. The words were tumbling forward, too fast to make any real sense of what she wanted to say, too entangled in her confused longing and conflicting emotions to emerge clear and free of such self-imposed burdens.

She only knew she wanted to make this better. To ease his pain. She only wanted to escape from all the hurt she was feeling for her extended family; but she wanted to flee from it in his embrace, to take him with her where it was safe and the world was at peace. Like before. Before everything fell apart. Before she became the implement of her own undoing and his.

But her heart stopped as he shook his head and took one large step away from her, still holding her elbows awkwardly for a moment before releasing them. He dropped his hands to his sides, stuffing them into the deep pockets of his coat. His shoulders slumped and he ducked his head. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. It was a rough sound. Almost painful. He took another step away from her as if needing even more distance between them. She watched as his throat worked and he pressed his mouth into a tight line.

"Get some rest," he said brusquely to the wall and turned away from her still outstretched arms. With his back to her, he went on, "I need to talk with Master Splinter and then check on Mikey."

With that, he fled from the room before she remembered how to breathe again.

* * *

The snowstorms had given way to periods of heavy gray sleeting, covering the mounds of snow in a coating of slick ice; glimmering in long dagger-like icicles off every telephone pole, gutter and overhang around the city. Leaping rooftops was dangerous at the best of times, now it was like playing Russian roulette. Raphael gripped Leonardo's wrist and hauled him up over the parapet of an apartment building that they had landed on shortly leaving the lair.

They had run in silence for the past hour, but now Raphael, his mind circling between what Master Splinter had ordered him to do and worry over Mikey and the exhilaration of finally hunting down the man responsible for his little brother's injuries, stopped to regroup. It seemed to Raph that they'd been going in circles. He needed to talk with Leo and not just about their mission. He stood shuddering as the icy mix poured down around them.

Leonardo was slightly pale and looked sick. Raphael could only guess that his brother was in pain from the exertion on his shoulder.

"You know, I could just do this alone," he said over the roar of the rain. He didn't mean for it to come out as harsh or condescending as it had. Even when he wasn't trying to be an ass, he still managed to come across as one. "Er, what I mean, is, if you need to, uh, if your arm is hurtin'." He shook his head. Why did he even try?

"I'm fine."

"Course you are."

Leonardo shot him a glare but it lacked teeth. He stared out over the roof line. Leonardo pointed out across the eastern boroughs where Purple Dragons stalked. "I've already exhausted any possibilities of Purple Dragon involvement."

Raphael shook his head in surprise. He gave his brother a double take. "You been bustin' Purple Dragon heads all this time instead of lookin' to the Foot? Leo," he snapped. "What the hell were you thinkin'? You know that she . . . er, sh-she –" he faltered and fell to silently stewing over his disagreement with his brother's tactics.

What the hell was Leo thinking? Was this his way of avoiding thinking about Karai? Cuz if it was, Leo was allowing his feelings to cloud his judgment once again. Unable to stop it, Raphael's temper flared to life.

"I know, Raph. I wanted to be sure. I couldn't fail Master Splinter. I couldn't leave any possible lead unchecked."

Raphael bit his tongue. But then, temper getting the best of him, he blurted, "Gimme a break. You know it was one of her men. She said so, herself. What the fuck, Leo?"

Leonardo took in a steadying breath. He continued as though he hadn't heard Raphael, "Tonight we head out to the Foot headquarters. We'll capture one of them and make them tell us what they know of Karai's regiment. Who worked under her. Who was out with her that night."

"Nuh-uh. Fuck that," Raph replied. His fingers were tapping along the edge of one of his sai. "You've had a month to go about tracking this guy and all I find out between Casey's messages and now you, is that you've been avoiding the one place you shoulda started with."

Leonardo's temper sparked, "Oh? The Foot headquarters isn't the right place to go? Despite now knowing that one of the Foot had to have had Mikey. Without a doubt." Leonardo gnashed his teeth as Raphael continued to shake his head in disgust at him. "Then why don't you enlighten me, Raphael."

"We need to go back to that house we found Mikey at."

Leonardo stiffened as a look of pure panic stampeded over his face. His eyes widened and he tried to compose himself.

But too late, Raphael caught it; shocked to see it. It should have made him angry. It should have spurned a scathing insult against his brother for being so weak, so fearful, but nothing but a sense of compassion enveloped Raphael. He understood why his brother had been avoiding that place. He was afraid. And Raphael did not blame him.

He didn't really want to go back to the scene of their brother's torture and the place of her murder. But he knew it was where they'd might be able to find some clues. If anything else, Raph wanted to get Mikey's nunchucks back to him. The poor kid looked so gray and petrified when he'd offered him the spare set a few weeks ago that Raphael had decided to at least try and return his little brother's possessions to him. He was sure it would help him feel better.

But his older brother had his own demons to work through and Master Splinter wanted him to mend things with Leo as they hunted the man down. No matter how uncomfortable it made him, he had to try. He owed this to Leonardo. It was past time they talked about what had gone down between them.

Nearly losing Mikey forever had impacted him in ways he never thought; leaving him shaken and terrified of losing any of his family. Even if it was over some stupid fight rather than the helplessness of physically losing them to the cruel hand of death, Raph wanted no part of that agony. Not anymore. He'd had enough with watching helplessly as Mikey was taken, rescued and returned to them, battered, mangled and changed. He wanted his family back. Whole and as they once were.

He needed Leo to be back to normal, even-keeled and quietly peaceful, with that quick smile, gentle and reassuring, even when he was being teased by Raph; like he used to be; like he needed Michelangelo's joyful smile and innocent playfulness to return.

It was as if the lights were turned off in the lair and no matter how many times he hit the switch nothing would happen. They remained in the dim shadows that blurred everything to a point of nearly being unrecognizable. He couldn't stand it anymore. Not anymore. Things had to start getting better, right? Master Splinter was right. It was time he took some control.

"Leo," Raphael stepped towards him and he remained fixed in place, staring hard at the ground, looking slightly sickened, dripping and shivering as the sleeting sheets drove against him and his brother's bodies and heads. "I know what you're feelin'. I know it's the last place you'd want to go."

Leonardo shook his head in denial, but knowing all along that Raphael was never more in the right than he was at that moment.

Raphael sighed and covered his head with his arms then swore as he wiped the stinging sleet from his head. He moved to an awning that gave him partial shelter beneath the doorway of the roof access shed. Leonardo remained standing in the icy downpour. After a moment, Raph huffed and stormed back into the sleet to retrieve Leonardo. He grabbed his brother by the sleeve of his dark coat and ushered him under the awning.

There wasn't much room, but the brothers stood, shoulder to shoulder, shivering and shuddering; teeth clattering in their skulls.

He glanced at Leonardo, then back out into the darkness punctuated by the hazy yellow glow of the street lamps below. Beyond the strange melody the ice and rain made against the roof, a siren cried out and then faded away. He looked again at his brother, then fidgeted. It was now or never.

Here goes nothing. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. For everythin'."

Leonardo turned his head and then brought his eyes up. They looked haunted and filled with guilt. Raph searched his brother's red rimmed eyes and felt his chest tighten. The end of his snout was still being pelted and Raph pulled his arm around the front of his brother's chest and moved him further under the protective awning as he stepped aside to make more room for the big stubborn idiot. The ice made a tiny drum beat along the ridges of his shell, tickling him as it turned to frigid water and ran over the back of his neck and shoulders.

Leonardo blinked at him.

"I never slept with her, Raph."

Raph stiffened. He blinked the rain from his eyes, suddenly feeling nothing but numb. He dropped his head. He crossed his arms and shook his head. He believed him. All this time thinking that he'd been played. When it was only partially true. They'd both been fools to that woman's games. As much as it stung him to be the physical portion of the activity, it was better than where his brother was positioned. Because at least he'd have the memories of laying in her arms. The sound of her moaning his name to cling to in the long lonely nights of his life ahead.

"But . . . why?"

Leo blinked at him in some confusion.

"She wanted you. Leo, I know she loved you. It was always you."

Leonardo's face broke into a smile filled with sadness and regret, baring his fangs, more of an anguished grimace than a smile, really. The breathy chuckle that emerged after it was a painful thing to hear, filled with so much bitterness.

Raphael stared at him in disbelief.

"I don't think so. But it doesn't matter." He laughed again and it sounded just as awful, just as forced and painful as the earlier chuckle. He pinched the bridge of his eyes and snout and dropped his hand. When he looked at Raphael again it was with that same resigned sorrow, that same weighted guilt. "I just wanted you to know. You asked me before and I didn't give you a straight answer. I was angry. But, Raph, I never . . . I never -" He shook his head unable to say anything further.

Raphael frowned. This wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want Leonardo's confession of propriety. No, he'd much rather think that his brother had gleaned some shred of happiness off the woman he loved so desperately. To know that on top of everything - that, as he'd once thought so furiously out of spite, that he'd  _won_  her affections over Leonardo - his brother remained without even that small comfort; it was too much. It was beyond wrong to Raphael.

It wasn't fucking  _fair_.

If his brother loved her and she loved him then why the hell was he dragged into the mess? Why did Karai do this to them? If she loved Leonardo as he believed she did, how could she have hurt him like this? Using him as the knife that she stabbed Leonardo in the back with.

Raphael clenched his jaw. This was worse than he could have ever imagined.

God, if he could only go back to that night she approached him. He would tell her to fuck off. No, better yet, he'd tell her to go find his brother. That's what she wanted, wasn't it?

But he'd been running on empty for so long, he just . . . he got caught up in her. It seemed so real, so unexpected that he suspended disbelief and allowed himself to be duped. Maybe . . . maybe he knew all along. But god, didn't it feel so good to be wanted, to pretend and fool himself that he was loved like that, even for a little while?

His eyes snapped to Leo and the guilt was a leaden presence in his twisting gut. If Leo wanted him to bleed, then he would bleed. Whatever it took. He didn't care.

"Leo, you gotta believe me. I-I never meant ta hurt you or anythin'. I-I swear to you, I thought you were over her. Long over. Ancient history. I-I woulda never, if I knew you still felt somethin'. I wouldn'ta' . . . never. I-I swear. Leo, I swear."

Leonardo looked at him, eyes bouncing between his as he absorbed what Raph was saying to him.

"I mean, what I'm tryin' ta . . . what I'm tryin' ta say is . . . I didn't mean any of this to happen. I would never hurtcha like that, not on purpose. Leo . . .?"

Leonardo's gaze did not drop, his chin wavered as his hand shot up and he clutched Raphael's shoulder in a tight grip. "I know," he croaked. After a moment of furious blinking, Leonardo said in an even, forced voice, "It's okay, Raph."

"No. It ain't okay. I'm sorry, Leo." Raphael lunged forward and gripped him into a fierce embrace. "I'm so sorry," he choked into the side of Leonardo's neck and face.

And bracing himself against the stabbing pain of his right shoulder being squeezed so furiously, Leo felt the hot tears of his brother's remorse against the chilled flesh of his cheek and neck. His throat worked as a lump formed. His heart hammered, his eyes stung with tears.

He brought his arms up and returned the hug. Weakly at first, then stronger as he placed his left palm against the back of Raphael's head. He turned his face and placed a kiss on top of his younger brother's head, then braced his forehead against it.

Raph shuddered and heaved a huge sob that wracked both their bodies.

His voice muffled, mouth pressed against his sobbing sibling's temple, Leonardo said, "Shh, it's okay. It's over . . . b-behind us. It's okay. Raph, really."

After another minute of squeezing Leonardo with a vice-like grip, Raph abruptly pulled away. Then, sniffling and rubbing his eyes swiftly, lest his brother catch on that he was blubbering like a baby, he cleared his throat and coughed. He took another step back and then jumped as he felt the dark coat fall across his shoulders.

Leonardo stood in the sleeting rain, looking down at his brother, one hand clamped securely on his shoulder as he pulled his arms through the sleeves, slightly stunned at the offering.

He stared with clear azure eyes hard into Raphael's gold until nodding he said, "We good?"

Voice thick with emotion, Raph replied, "Y-yeah, Leo. If you say so . . . we're good."

Leo nodded once and clapped his shoulder before he turned and looked back over the city. "Let's get the van and head to that house, then. It's time we find this bastard and serve him justice for what he's done."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If someone once told me I'd be able to write a story about two brothers so betrayed by one another and still manage to have them mend in such a beautifully emotional way, I would have told them they were crazy - just plain crazy!
> 
> Is it wrong for me to be jumping up and down, crying my eyes out and saying YES! Raph and Leo! YES! Make up, you two crazy brothers! if it is...well, just ignore me.
> 
> Oh man . . . next chapter is gonna be rough. I'm just gonna drop that little warning here and go lay down for a while like Snoopy on his doghouse, contemplating life.


	29. Monster's Rise

_'Don't be scared . . . I'm still here._

_No more time, for crying tears.'_ –Blackbird Song by Lee DeWyze

 

* * *

He woke with a start. Sitting up and shaking, quivering and covered in a clammy sheet of sweat. His heart was choking him and his pulse raced in his ears. Realization struck him that he was safe, was home, was in his own bedroom, on his own bed. But the sound of Malcolm's voice drifted like an echo just fading from the back of his mind's inner ear.

He couldn't quite make out what he'd been dreaming, but he made out some words still whole in his mind. Malcolm promising he wouldn't leave. That he'd find Mikey again. Not to fear. That they'd be together again.

He shuddered.

He gazed around for any sign of April, wishing with a fierce need for her presence, knowing that she could help chase the fear away, beat back the shadows of the monster that lurked in his memories, haunting his mind, but he found his room empty. He blinked morosely. He was on his own. He had to deal with this. Alone. He couldn't keep making April his comfort, his protector. And he knew that while she didn't mind helping him, she had her own life to live.

Dimly he realized how difficult it must be for her to be down here these past few weeks. Not only dealing with his helpless, useless ass and his pathetic mood swings, but having to be near Donnie, after everything that went down between the two of them. Geez, he'd been selfish, he realized sadly.

Having to see Donatello once in a while was hard enough on her in the past and now, she was practically living down here with them. He couldn't keep doing this to her. Or to his brother. For he knew that no matter how cold Donatello had become, his brother had never stopped loving April. He put on a good act, but Mikey wasn't fooled.

Michelangelo sighed.

It was time that he stopped being such a baby and leaning on everyone. He had to be strong. Stronger. Like Raph. Stoic like Leo. Cold like Donatello. Hard.

With a trembling hand he rested his forehead down into the palm. He didn't feel strong, or stoic or hard. He felt soft and weak and stupid. No matter how hard he trained, it didn't make any difference. He was still useless. A victim.

The word triggered memories of last night. He straightened up as slips of the previous night's conversation came back to him. He'd told her. Like an idiot he'd spilled out to her almost everything. And she wasn't here now. He wasn't sure if he felt relieved or concerned. Did she not want to be around him after finding out what was done to him? God, if she did . . . and he didn't even tell her about . . . his babies. His face flushed in deep embarrassment. His stomach flipped and he felt sick.

He pressed a hand to his mouth and closed his eyes, forcing the memory away. Shoving it down and burying it as deeply as he could. He wouldn't ever tell anyone about that. Never. He swallowed dryly and tasted bile.

But what he did tell her . . . was it enough to disgust her? To sever their friendship? A fresh wave of fear struck him.  _Oh god_. Would she keep her promise of not saying anything to his brothers or father about what he'd told her? What if she was telling Splinter right now? Mikey hugged himself as he started to hyperventilate. 

 _Oh god. Oh god. This is bad_. What the hell was he thinking last night? He was so stupid! He shook his head and rocked a little.  _Get a grip, Michelangelo, don't be a baby. April wouldn't tell anyone. She promised. She swore._  

He felt the initial panic subsiding as he took in a long slow breath and then another as Master Splinter had shown him.

Still, the worry lingered. He brushed it away as much as he could, still breathing how Splinter taught him; telling himself that if anyone knew how to keep secrets it was April. He smiled grimly. That's right. April was the queen of keeping secrets. She had been sleeping with Donatello for months before anyone got wise. She'd come over just as they were getting in from patrolling early in the morning and wouldn't leave until long after midnight. Mikey often wondered when the heck Donatello slept during those visits. Exhausted as his brother was, Mikey remembered how happy Don had been. He practically glowed.

Since they broke up, though, Don almost never even smiled.

Mikey ran a hand over his face. Yeah, it was time to let April go. Time to grow up and do what he needed to get stronger. He shifted his legs and moved the blanket from his thighs. He glanced down at the nub of what remained of his tail and felt his heart sink. Not for the first time he wished that he was whole. Sometimes it hurt so bad, the very tip would throb. But that was just crazy, because the tip was gone. Heck, most of his entire tail had been removed. There was only about an inch, maybe an inch and a half that remained. And it was scarred and ugly to Mikey. It made his stomach feel queasy just looking at it. Despite that, he concentrated and managed to wag the pathetic stump from side to side but a jolt of nerve pain made him stop. Something that Don explained would only go away with time, and Mikey guessed what Don wasn't telling him was that it may never completely go away.

"Stubby," he murmured with a bitter huff. He wished that Don had just cut it all off.

But as he sat staring at the folded scarred tissue that made up the end of his tail, images of a dream he'd had last night swept past his mind's eye. He froze, feeling uneasy. Part of him wanted to let it fade into the ether of wherever dreams slid away to come morning, but he had an odd feeling that he should make an effort to grasp it and remember it. But all he could manage to dredge up was his brothers . . . no, one brother in particular.

He recalled Leonardo's pain-filled eyes. Wide and shocked, looking at him, looking up at him from where he lay panting; his chest . . . his chest covered in gore from several puncture marks. In Mikey's fist was his nunchucks. They, too, were covered in blood. Malcolm's voice whispered in his ear that they were meant to be together. That his brothers were the weak ones that they needed to pay for abandoning him when he needed them most.

In the dream, he raised his dripping weapon and brought them down on top of Leonardo's arms as he tried to defend his head from the attack. Malcolm's laughter bounced around him, as he cheered Mikey on. The sickening crack of bone breaking, of thick skull shattering, and Leo's weakening whines of pain filled his mind.

Mikey made a strangled cry and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. What was  _wrong_  with him? It was bad enough to dream of Malcolm torturing him night after night, why would he dream of hurting Leo? A shudder went through Mikey and he rubbed his arms brusquely.

Didn't he have enough to deal with? Was it his way of wishing it hadn't been him? That Leo had taken his place? Maybe that's all it was. He wondered about that with a glum sinking feeling. He was such a coward. Pathetic. Still so weak.

He wanted to speak to Leo before he left. He wanted to ask him if he could come with. He glanced at the clock on his desk. A bolt of panic speared him. It was nearly lunch time! He jumped up and crossed the room.

Suddenly feeling an odd shyness, he peered out into the living space of the lair, everything was still and quiet. Had they left already?  _Dammit_. He crept out to find Master Splinter staring blankly at the newspaper in front of him and Donatello's back as he moved towards the garage, tool box tucked under one arm, a large black plastic bag, protruding in angles from whatever was inside of it, bounced along his opposite hip.

Mikey entered the kitchen, wringing his hands with worry, as Splinter stood up and gave him a weary smile. April appeared behind him and he gave her a nervous, questioning look. She returned it with a warm smile of reassurance. His fear ebbed a bit. She held no pity in her gaze, no judgment, just as, somehow, he knew there would be none, despite his fear. April was so great.

In that moment, Mikey felt more love for his surrogate sister than ever before. It was all he had in him not to grab her and hug her in thanks. But he didn't want to raise questions from his father with the peculiar behavior, so he restrained himself. It wasn't easy.

"You hungry?"

"Uh, yeah."

He glanced between her and Master Splinter then back at her again. Just making sure. As though reading his fears, she gave him a little shake of her head and he exhaled as his shoulders relaxed. Relieved, and trusting that she hadn't gone back on her promise not to say anything to anyone, sat down. He was starting to feel better by the minute. The ghosts of his remembered dream slipped further from the front of his mind.

Master Splinter sat down next to him. He reached out and gave his hand a squeeze; looking at him with a happy gleam in his eyes, as though just being in the same room with Michelangelo made him content, before going back to the paper.

Mikey ducked his head.

"Want some eggs?" April asked, emerging from behind the refrigerator door.

"That would be great," he replied meekly. "Where is everyone?"

Splinter glanced up. "Leonardo and Raphael are tracking the enemy."

His stomach flipped. "Oh." He fidgeted, disappointment clouding his instance of happiness. He overslept and missed his chance to ask Leo or even tell him to be safe. "I hope they're okay."

"I believe together they will be more than a match for this person, Michelangelo. Do not fret. I know you are eager to have closure over what has happened. And I promise you, you will have it."

More than anything, Mikey just wished they could forget that anything had ever happened to him to begin with. Yes, he wanted Malcolm to pay for what he'd done. But not if it put any of his family at risk. If he couldn't go with them, he wished they'd just stay home with him. Why make such a big deal about it, anyway. It was only him. And it was over now.

Or . . . or was it that they were worried that he'd be captured again if they didn't put an end to Malcolm? Doubt hit him. That was probably it. They knew he was so pathetic that he'd get taken again and they didn't want to have to bother having to find him and rescue his sorry ass again. He held the fork between the fingers on either hand and the metal bent a little with the force of his grip.

Between the moments of feeling angry at his brothers, he'd often felt lonely and displaced. Anxious and irritable when Raph was hanging around him, but that was more because his brother would not give him any breathing space whatsoever and continued to treat him like a fragile little baby. That wasn't what he wanted, either. He just . . . he just wanted for everything to go back to how it once was. For everyone to just forget what happened. To pretend that it never did. He wanted it to all go away.

He dropped the fork, now bent slightly in the center.

He rubbed his eyes and was surprised to find his fingers coming away wet. He ground his teeth together and felt furious at himself for being such a baby. He stared at Master Splinter sitting and reading through the paper so casually while his older brothers were out seeking a lethal monster. He wondered how much his father had actually missed him when he was gone. He wondered if Splinter sat there and read the paper those days he was at Malcolm's mercy.

A bitter laugh erupted out of him and Splinter looked up at him quizzically. He swept his gaze away and fidgeted.

"I assure you, Michelangelo. There is nothing to worry over."

Mikey nodded, staring at the fork in front of him. He wondered if Master Splinter told the same thing to his brothers when they'd go out and search for him. He closed his eyes and took in a steadying breath. Thinking like this wasn't going to help. He needed to get a grip. But despite Splinter's reassurances and confidence in his brothers' abilities, Mikey felt that his father didn't quite understand how dangerous Malcolm was. What the man was capable of doing. Which was anything. Everything.

He was a madman.

He picked up the fork and tapped the end of it on the table. "Maybe I should go . . . with them," Mikey offered in a halting voice. Part of him just wanted to get away from the poisonous thoughts circling in his mind. Maybe hunting down Malcolm was just what he needed.

Splinter dropped the paper to the table. He and April exchanged looks. Neither spoke. She slid a fried egg then another one onto a plate and set it in front of Michelangelo. The plate scraping across the surface of the table the only sound in the room.

Mikey suddenly felt his heart start to pound and the temperature in the room became uncomfortably warm; cloying.

"I mean, I would know better than anyone what to look for, right?" His face bounced between his friend and his father, their reluctance to answer was starting to fray on his nerves. He tossed his fork down. It clattered against the plate, the sound loud in his ears. "What?" he snapped. His anger flaring.

He turned to Master Splinter. "Do you think I wouldn't be able to take care of this? That I'm . . . what? Too weak to s-see him again? Face to face? Well, I'm not!" He stood up, his temper escalating. The chair wobbled and nearly fell over.

He jabbed his thumb into his heaving chest. "I'm not afraid!" He announced in a rising voice.

"It's not a matter of fear, Michelangelo."

Mikey jumped as Donatello appeared behind him. He wheeled around to see Donatello standing with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. His face a mask of calm. His eyes lidded with casual rationality.

"It is a simple question of recovery time. You are in no shape to be hunting anything or anyone. I have no doubt that you would dispatch your tormentor as readily as any of us, without hesitation."

"Then why not let me go? I'm not limping anymore. I've been working out. I-I can handle it. Leo and Raph will need my help," he insisted.

"I don't think so," Don replied flatly.

Mikey clenched his jaw and stomped up to Donatello; getting within an inch of his brother's face. His blue eyes crackled with fury, flashing bright and glassy. Donatello remained nonplussed.

"Are you saying that I'm useless?!"

Donatello waved him away with a dismissive motion of his hand and stepped around him towards the coffee maker. His dark eyes glanced up at April then dropped away. There was no sign in his expression or body language to suggest that she'd even spoken to him that morning. His attitude was the same as it always seemed to be: cool, calm and collected. She felt a pang of something like grief hit her.

"Of course not. I never implied such nonsense. I simply mean that I expect communication from our brothers within the next hour or so. I suspect that they've made progress and have returned to your place of detainment. I advised Raphael that when he accompanied Leonardo to be sure to start there."

He poured water into the carafe and pulled a bag of coffee grounds from the cabinet. He shook the right amount into the filter lined cup. Then went on, "I figured that Leonardo would be hesitant to revisit the place where his," his eyes shot to Splinter then swept away. He cleared his throat. "Regardless. I believe that the man who took you was squatting in that house. Hidden away like a rat," he turned again to Splinter, "No offense, Father."

"Of course," Splinter returned mildly. But then turn a compassionate expression to Mikey. "Donatello is correct, Michelangelo. There is no need for you to exert yourself."

"I . . . That doesn't mean I can't help."

Donatello leaned on the counter and crossed his arms, the sleeves of his lab coat bunched and pulled along the lines of his biceps and thick forearms. He inclined his head. "Should they require your assistance, then fine. I see no reason to keep you here. By all means. If they happen to call, then . . . go."

April started. "But Donatello, what about what you just said?"

He shot her a hard look that shut her mouth with a snap. She felt her face burn with humiliation.

"Michelangelo is as capable as any of us. He's right. His healing is on schedule and if Raph or Leo needed him," he paused and gave her a significant look, "then I would not stand in the way of Mikey gaining some closure," he gestured to Splinter, "as Father mentioned a moment ago."

"Okay, then. If they call, I'm going. I am."

He shot a challenging look around but Don only remained where he was gazing placidly at the floor before him. Splinter nodded and sat back down. April stood next to him, giving him an odd look of admiration. Mikey slowly sat back down and picked up his fork.

"It's settled, then. If they ask for you, we'll go."

Donatello turned back to his empty mug. His eyes slid to April and seeing her watching him he turned his head away, but not before she caught the hint of a smile on his lips. Her heart leapt.

April nodded to herself, understanding at long last. Donatello's mind, so clever and always ahead of her in leaps and bounds, that wonderful, mysterious mind that enthralled her, was as usual, planning every move and counter move. He just laid Michelangelo's fears of helplessness and uselessness to rest while impressing upon Mikey that he was needed and thought of as capable, and would be asked to assist without hesitation should his brothers call. And the chances of Raph or Leo calling here to ask Mikey for help was unlikely.

More than that, it was impossible.

* * *

The house loomed over them as they exited the van, creeping along the scrub line of overgrown bushes and small trees. It remained as they'd first seen it: decrepit and threatening; every lined crevice defined by deep shadow. The second story windows, laced in frost, peered down at them, watching their movements as the two brothers emerged from the protective shelter of the pines and dead branches and crossed the expanse of the driveway.

The sleet had eased off leaving the sky a foreboding gray and the air with a damp chill that cut through the coat Leonardo had given to him. Bundles of clouds sped by with unnatural speed as though the sky was on a separate film reel and someone had set it faster than the one playing the ground below. It had a dizzying effect on Raphael whenever he glanced up, so he kept his eyes forward, following Leonardo up the creaking steps into the front of the house. He saw Leo glance to the side and he followed his brother's look to see a chair out on the lawn, sticking partially up out of the snow, coated in a glistening layer of ice. That wasn't there before. But any number of people could have come here and vandalized the place. One of the front parlor windows was smashed and the front door hung loosely open on one hinge. It made no sound as they entered.

"I'll go up," Raph said to Leo, wanting to check the room he'd found Mikey in for his brother's nunchucks.

Leo nodded, "And I'll go down."

They separated, both keenly aware of the possibility that there may be Foot soldiers or even an errant homeless person squatting in any of the narrow rooms before them. Leonardo, his shoulder aching, slid through the claustrophobic, tight rooms that connected through a long hallway. He peered into a galley-style kitchen and frowned. He stepped more fully into the room and his eyes scanned the table. Someone had eaten there, recently. There were stacks of plates with bits of food remaining. The one closest to him had a lump of noodles, still wet, glistening on one edge.

Someone was here. He turned.

The man came up from where he crouched and the butcher's knife sliced up and through the thick part of Leo's right forearm as he moved to block the attack. He hissed as he fell back into the table, the force knocking the plates over and into each other, clattering to the floor. As he righted himself, a rod jabbed into the front of his throat. He made out a pair of gray eyes, wild and round. As he grabbed for the weapon to knock it away or deflect it, not realizing it was more than a simple metal tonfa as he assumed, the man made a shushing sound at him.

Then the world erupted into a blazing white oblivion of agony as electricity shot through his jaw into his head.

Panting, Malcolm jumped back as Leonardo's knees buckled and he slumped forward. Malcolm's head shot around, looking to see if the noise they made alerted the other one to his presence. Nothing. He licked his lips. His eyes roved the ceiling as the floor gave a slight creak and Malcolm knew the larger of the pair was in the east bedroom. A giddiness swept through him and he gave a leap of excitement. He'd be next.

But first . . .

When he spotted the van pulling up along the road from the sitting room his heart had frozen in his chest. He had nearly finished his dinner of ramen when he thought he'd heard something like the sound of an engine cutting off. He'd hurried into the front room and glanced out the side window to see two shadows advancing towards the house.

At first, he assumed it to be more Foot. They had scoured the place twice in looking for any further clues as to his and Kenso's disappearance, and the murder of Karai, but both those instances had been fully out in the open and he'd hidden in the forest between the cemetery and the grounds, in a hollow just beneath a ragged overhang near a stream. He nearly froze to death but it was worth it.

Now, this was something different and his natural tendency of self-preservation told him exactly who was creeping up on him. Mikey's brothers. So, wiping the grease from his chin, he ran back to the kitchen and pulled the butcher knife from the block and tucked the modified cattle prod from the shed into his belt. He'd quickly scurried to and then squeezed into the linen closet between the sitting room and the kitchen where he'd waited for a chance to either escape or attack just as they came through the front door. He would have preferred to escape, but he could not pass up the chance that fate had handed to him.

He set the knife to one side and crouched. His eyes roved over the mutant in front of him. He resembled Mikey in form, but his face was different, more angular; body fuller; this one was older. There were some scars running over his limbs and plastron that Malcolm found distasteful. He turned over one of Leonardo's arms, prodding his bulging muscles and veins with a look of revolted interest on his face. Mikey's arms were smaller, less muscular. Leaner. This one was simply gross.

Malcolm noticed the bandages on his shoulder. He shuffled closer. Using the tip of the butcher knife, he peeled the strips of bandages away to reveal a healing bullet wound. He raised an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose. It looked painful. Swollen and red. Stitched neatly, though. Someone in their clan was a skilled medic.

He wondered who it might be, remembering Mikey's fear of blood with a smile. Poor baby. It certainly wasn't he that cared for this brother. Mikey was someone that needed to be cared for. He was not capable of tending to others. That's why he sometimes came across as selfish, Malcolm realized with a glow of instant forgiveness. He couldn't wait to be with his dream lover again.

Still feeling curious, he ran the tip of the knife over the mutant's jawline, taking in the color of his skin, the lighter green where the tip scrapped against the yielding flesh; feeling a slight warmth in his center at the similarity between the brothers despite some of the distinguishing differences. There certainly was some resemblance. He had a momentary lustful thought, but it died more or less instantly. He could never betray his dream lover.

Using the knife's blade, he turned Leonardo's chin towards him. He blinked as recognition hit him. He was the one that carried Karai's body from the shed. This one, the one in blue, he was the leader, Malcolm suddenly remembered. One of the slut's mutant-whores. One of them that stole his beloved from him.

A flash of rage swept through him. He had to pay for that. Malcolm's eyes went back to the bullet wound. He positioned the handle of the knife in his fist and raised his hand high. He plunged it down into the wound, burying it to the hilt.

Leonardo's eyes snapped open. He took a sharp inhale and then screamed.

With a growl, Malcolm dragged the knife from his body, a long line of blood connected it to the wound, spattering them both with gore. He raised it back and moved to bring it down again into the mutant's throat.

Leonardo's hands came up as his eyes widened. His breath hitched as pain rocked his shuddering body. He took hold of Malcolm's wrist, blocking the incoming blow, as his body bucked and quaked, the wound bubbling crimson like a hot spring. They grappled for a few seconds. Leo's initial burst of adrenaline quickly fading with his continual blood loss. His grip on the madman's wrist was weakening. He growled and tried to get positioned to kick the man away, but they were at an awkward angle and the table screeched as it was pushed back until it hit the wall from their struggling. Plates spilled and shattered around them.

"Filthy pig!" Malcolm snarled.

He reached back for the cattle prod with one blood covered hand. His fingertips fumbled just as they touched it; scrambling to take hold of it. He gripped it and brought it around and jabbed it under Leo's bleeding arm. Before he could trigger it a pair of enormous arms wrapped around his chest. He was lifted from the floor and flung across the room like he weighed nothing. His back slammed into the cabinets and stove and the wind was knocked from his lungs in a whoosh of bright pain. The cattle prod and knife skittered across the floor.

_"Leo!"_

Raph turned to his brother and fell immediately to his knees. His face blanched as he took in the wound gushing blood. The bastard stabbed him in the shoulder where he'd been shot. A crippling jolt of fury went through him, but he fought it back to remain calm. He ripped the coat from his shoulders and balled it up and pressed it onto his brother's gushing wound.

Leo's eyes rolled as his head lolled back. He was panting and clenching his jaw. Legs weakly kicking as he tried to right himself. Raph wrapped his arm around his brother's middle and pulled him to sit upright against the wall, kicking one chair out of the way as he did. Leo groaned with the motion. He took Leo's hands and made him hold the coat in place.

"Easy. Hang on!" With shaking hands, Raph pulled the shell cell from his belt. He flipped it open and cursed with every second the phone rang and no one answered. "Fuck it all! Don!  _Answer_!"

Leo was shaking but he didn't make a sound, he just stared at Raph with wide eyes and a clenching jaw as he waited for someone to answer. Raph noticed how gray his skin was. Dammit. He looked bad. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man stirring.

"No, you fuckin'  _don't_."

Raph shot up, phone cradled between jaw and shoulder. He crossed the space in three strides and kicked the man hard in the ribs as he was getting to his hands and knees. He made an anguished cry as he crumpled back, banging into the cabinets again. The man squirmed and whimpered piteously. His hands shook with rage as he reached down and pawed at the man until he rolled him over.

The other end of the phone finally picked up.

"Raph."

He hollered into the phone, "Get your ass out here, now! Leo's hurt. Fucker stabbed 'em." Donatello rattled off a string of questions that Raph ignored. "Just get out here!"

Vaguely, he heard Don make an aggravated sound of protest.

Raphael's fingers gathered the man's shirt and pulled him up to stand on rubbery legs. He cocked his fist back and moved to punch him, but hesitated, mind racing. Then he hit him, but not as hard as he first intended. Malcolm's head snapped back. He slumped in Raph's grip. Raphael released the man and he fell in a heap at his feet. He reigned in his rage. It was no simple thing. But he had to. As much as he wanted to end this guy in the slowest most painful way, this was not for him to finish.

His lip curled in a bitter smile. He'd gotten Mikey something better than his nunchucks.

"And Don?" he panted into the phone.

There was a tense pause on the other end as Don listened, fearing worse information was about to be delivered.

"Bring Mikey."

* * *


	30. Cannibal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You Apritello fans hang on . . . bumps ahead...

 

Donatello's eyes shot immediately to Mikey who leaped to his feet. Without hesitation he ran to retrieve his kusari gama, the short handled sickle with the chain attached. Donatello swore and hung up the phone, he was moving towards the garage with April right behind him. He looked over his shoulder at her.

"Mikey heard Raph's big mouth," he growled and stopped to enter his lab. He moved around, gathering tools and shoved them into a large duffle he had near the door. Swearing more than April ever heard from him before. "Dammit. This . . . This is a bad idea."

"But . . . Don, I thought you said . . . it would be okay . . ." she trailed off as he stood still, shoulders drooping. He stared into the bag in front of him. Pausing as though considering something. He sighed.

"You're right. This was my brilliance at work, wasn't it?" He made a soft huff that sounded like a bitter chuckle. "Wouldn't be the first time my ideas blew up in my face."

With that his dark eyes roved over his shoulder to look at her. He maintained eye contact, his stare boring into her, searing her mind until the flaming ashes lit her fluttering heart. "Like when I told you to confront your father," he said so quietly she nearly missed it. But even if she hadn't completely heard the words, she would have known to what he was referring.

He had insisted when Master Splinter explained that he'd gone to her father to put an end to their relationship that she simply confront Kirby and tell him that she was old enough to know what she wanted. Was mature enough to handle her own personal affairs. She needed to confront him as Donatello would Splinter. He would not give up so easily and neither should she. Donatello was certain that they'd be able to convince their respective fathers that they knew exactly what they were doing.

And she did precisely as he instructed her. Only, he miscalculated how strong her resolve was when it came to defying her father. For April their wild affair was built on obsessive need and storming emotions. In the stark clarity of logic and reason, the very things her father fortified his stoic front with, it withered and shrunk back. She was always the 'good girl' and did not want to face her father's cold reasoning and manipulative pleading.

April learned quickly that it was one thing to sneak around and feed her passions with her lover in the dark of night and early morning haze, hidden away, private and secure; but quite another to present her heart's yearnings and physical, lustful need before her father's righteous scorn and stand in judgment by him. The man who raised her alone and loved her best. How could she defy his wishes? Or worse, when he flayed her heart with the simple question: what would her mother think of this behavior? And her world spun. Over, up and down around her. It spun until she became dizzy. She was drowning in the center of her living room. The pressure in her lungs and head building.

She was going to scream. She was screaming. He couldn't hear her. But she was. She screamed and screamed where she stood in silent defeat.

The two men in all the world were tearing her in half. Father and lover. In the end she remained what she'd always been; dutiful daughter. Obedient. Compliant. Apologies. She would get help. She would do whatever he insisted. She would be good once again. For him. For her mother's memory. Relieved, he had embraced her never realizing that she was sinking slowly to the bottom, screaming for her lover to come rescue her.

It wasn't Donatello's fault. She just hadn't been strong enough. She was only strong when she was with him. Without him she was as fragile as a feather being buffeted by the whims of a greater force. Her heart was strong, her will was weak.

"Don," she choked and reached for him, but stopped herself before touching him. She folded her fingers tightly together and let them drop in front of her body. She ducked her head. "What happened before . . . between us."

He wasn't looking at her, but he wasn't stopping her. He was focused on what she was saying. He was listening. Finally. She took the moment.

"I should have never doubted what we had. I should have never doubted you."

The words left her lips and it felt like there was more. And there was. So many things she needed to say. But the explanations, the reasons, the apologies, everything between them, their entire story suddenly felt as though it was written on some ethereal translucent paper. Too delicate to hold for long without it disintegrating in her grasp. Too fragile to speak unless the words tear it. Too late to breathe strength into something shattered.

She stood there and he remained fixed. Listening, still. Hoping for more. Like the fool he ever was. Until; finally, with the silence stretching between them, awkward and ugly; a deformed thing; something that could never have existed between them, before, he knew no more would come.

She used to pour herself into him with her words. And he would drink them and devour them. Savoring every syllable, reaching deep for more. She was an infinite well of mystery and loveliness. She was the welcoming universe and the embodiment of a love most pure and fine. And he could only stand in the presence of her and all that she was; enraptured.

To love her was to worship her grace and beauty; her intelligence and wonder. He had nothing to give to her for this gift so fervently bestowed upon his miserable excuse for a life. Nothing but his mind and his heart. His thoughts shaped into words. So he gave these with all his heart, with all his passion, baring and spilling his soul into every murmured conversation. These words were given as his returned offering; like breath given for heartbeats, exchanged ideas like silver and gold and all the precious things in the world between them, only them.

Forever and ever the words building and falling over them, tumbling soft and gentle like snowflakes. Like rain. Warm and free. Always, always free. The only time he was ever, truly free. Free from what he was; from what he could never be. In her arms, wrapped in her words, embraced by her dreams shared through those spoken miracles falling from her lips absorbed straight into his heart, he was free.

But now the cage and the bars came into focus. The fever dream of freedom fractured by the reality of what could never be.

Now between them there was only the broken shards of a thought. Marred and stained.  _Should have_.  _Should have. Should have._  Useless. Empty. What good was regret? What did it bring to them, now?

What was she trying to give to him with  _these_  words?

He held out his hand and looked into the palm. The surface was criss-crossed with lines and light scars. Most importantly, though, it was empty. Like his heart. He closed his fingers slowly and dropped his hand to his side.

He turned to her then. Eyes full of sorrow glittered with emotions kept locked away for too long. Just as fragile as the moment between them. More so. He never quite met her eyes.

"Don't speak of before to me. Never again. What's done," he took in a slightly shuddering breath, quickly and hurried on in a much clearer, cooler tone, "is done. You and I . . . What we had. Whatever that was is gone. We're . . . we're ove-," he glanced up at her and stuttered to a halt.

Tears were streaking down her flushed cheeks, her head was shaking back and forth, her hands clenched before her chin.

Donatello dropped his eyes, unable to see her like that for a second more. His resolve began to fall apart. Crumbling no doubt from the weeks of emotional strain due to Mikey's kidnapping and fear of losing him after they had finally found and rescued him. The stress of having to be forced to amputate his little brother's private body part. The pressure of keeping his indifferent attitude in place, of making it clear that he was no longer interested at all in April when that was not, in fact, at all accurate. That the truth was, he could not stop himself from being drawn to her.

He watched her, when she was unaware and when she was, he watched her from the corner of his eyes, around the corner of his heart, and when he couldn't see her in person, his mind was filled with her face. The thought of her encroached any and all moments of fleeting peace that he had between Mikey's homecoming and his rehabilitation.

And in the quiet of the long nights, he wondered as his mind wandered lost in his fears, drowning in doubt, furious in his defiance of his own heart.  _What was she thinking when she looked at me like that? Could there possibly be love in those eyes? For me? Why? Why now? Why is she even here? Why does she torture me? Does she ever remember how things once were? What would happen if I touched her? If I told her I wished she never loved me for how it turned out? Would she cry? Would she . . .?_

His throat worked. His mind blanked. He was at a loss. He was lost.

She stepped towards him and her fingertips grasped at the sleeves of his coat, pinching it tightly, but getting no closer. That tiny gesture anchored him to the spot. No force of nature, no gale, no man, no god could have moved him from that place; standing in front of her, riveted, magnetized.

"But . . . Donatello," her voice was small and sweet with sorrow. Tentatively, he brought his eyes up from her fingers, still holding tight to his sleeve, to hers, bright and sincere.

"I still love you."

The world around him halted. And time stumbled out of place as the words, the words like a hammer blow to the steel of his malleable heart, forged it anew. His mouth dropped open as his forehead crushed into a frown.

But before he could speak, before he could even think of a response to what she had just admitted, Michelangelo burst into the lab; shattering the moment and bringing them both crashing back to reality. Leo was injured. Raph had the man responsible. Mikey was to meet his destiny. Love - that small, insignificant dream; that fever, that cannibal; that promise and lie; that question and answer - had to wait.

"C'mon, Donnie, let's go! April, we'll need your van, okay?"

Donatello shook himself and with a long look, pulled out of her reach. He slung the strap over his shoulder, never taking his gaze from hers; peering deeply, searching her eyes for something. And then he was gone.

* * *

Mikey stared ahead, vibrating in his seat with anticipation and nerves. Finally, the chance was before him. Finally, he could show them that he was not weak. That he could take care of this on his own. That what had happened to him would not define or shape who he was; he would take back what was ripped from him: his dignity, his pride.

He would not admit to himself that fear was driving this anxiety. That to see Malcolm again so soon after what he'd done to him was terrifying. So much so that he had to force himself to concentrate on the passing buildings, noting the number of windows on the floors he could see, counting them to ease his trepidation. Watching the distorted image of himself being reflected back in some of the larger shop windows, blurred and stretched, distorted and misshapen.

He dropped his eyes to his hands, no longer finding any sort of comfort in what he was seeing outside the van. He clenched and released his hands with agitated movements and Don, who was driving, gave him a sidelong glance.

"Michelangelo," he started, "I just want to mention . . ." he fumbled in a halting voice, thrown from April's revelation to him, and not equipped as he should have been for this chance to talk sense into his younger brother. He knew that Raphael's intentions were good, but the man was too thick and too violent himself to understand that what he'd done by offering Mikey the chance at revenge may well be the final blow that destroys him. He wished to Einstein that he'd not mentioned to Mikey that he'd been expecting a call earlier.

The boy was his shadow the rest of the morning, and when the call came, he heard everything. Galvanizing him.

It was clear to Donatello what this was, what it meant to Mikey as well as what it would do to him. His younger brother was working through so much anger these past six weeks. He'd not been himself and this drive for violent closure was not something that Mikey would be able to process once he came back to himself again. It may well sever the boy from who he once was forever. No way back from this juncture.

Donatello ran a dry tongue over an equally dry bottom lip. His brothers were their own people. They had a right to live their own lives and pursue their own intentions and motivations. But in this, Donatello understood that he needed to interfere. Michelangelo was not thinking clearly. He was emotionally unsound and mentally brittle. He had to try to get through to him. He was running out of time. He gave himself a mental shake.

He began again, "In the heat of battle, when fighting for your life, it's a simple thing. Kill or be killed."

Mikey glanced up from his hands to look out the window as the apartments gave way to the long low buildings of the industrial area not far from their destination. Donatello pressed his mouth into a line, hoping that maybe his brother wasn't just tuning him out as he had the past few weeks whenever he'd tried to talk with Michelangelo. He pressed on.

"I just don't want you to do anything you may end up regretting. Revenge doesn't suit you, little brother." He paused and still there was no response from his brother. He didn't care, not at all, and his words were ironic given the path he'd set ahead for himself; but for Mikey's sake, for his brother's sanity and future, for any hope that he'd ever be able to recover, he said in a tight, slightly accusatory tone, "The man will be defenseless."

Mikey's face shot around. It held an expression of outrage and hurt.

Donatello felt the twin flush of triumph and guilt.

"And I  _wasn't_?"

"Well . . . That's not my point."

Mikey flinched and Donatello hated himself. Hated the world and everything that brought him to this point. But mostly he despised the role he was being forced to take here. The cold, uncaring, logical performance that he'd been driven to play for years now. For what? But he had no other better choice. He was risking his brother's relationship in trying to save him.

He blundered forward, "It's one thing . . . that is . . . What I'm trying to tell you is that . . . You shouldn't do this," he finished weakly and cursed under his breath.

Mikey turned away. He shook his head and Donatello could not see his expression, but he imagined that it was nothing short of horrified and disgusted with him. Don opened his mouth and closed it. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He ground his teeth together.

His frustration zeroed in on the weakest link in his mind. Easy to focus on her, to blame her, when everything was as screwed up as this.  _Damn it all, April._ That woman would be the death of him. He would have been able to handle this with more finesse and was certain he could have talked Mikey out of it had he not been so befuddled by her. Dammit, he had enough on his mind. He didn't need this as well.

And yet his circling mind could not let it be. Asking, why  _now_? Why would she say that to him  _now_? When he was on the cusp of doing something . . . something that may alter forever who he was. When he was very nearly convinced he could live without her in his life. Nearly. A bit more time with her away would have done it. Another few years, at the very most. A decade without seeing her face would have done the trick without a doubt. Or two. Certainly no more than that.

_I still love you._

Gah.

He went on bluntly, "I don't think this is a good idea . . . for you. You should leave it to Raphael or Leonardo, if he's capable considering his injuries. They've killed before, after all."

He chanced a glance at Mikey's face as his younger brother turned back to him and his stomach dropped. His brother had a murderous look in his eyes. They were overly bright, huge and glassy. Manic.

_Perfect. Great job, Don. Rev him up to the challenge of destroying himself._

_"You think I can't do it._ Well, that's _bullshit!"_ Mikey snarled and punched the dashboard.

Donatello blinked at the curse and the strike, still getting used to his younger brother's foul language and furious outbursts. It did not come natural. The emotions ran awkward and strange on him. Like a dog beaten until frothing and raging; like a normally docile animal abused and starved to a point of ravaging the first hand to offer food; his brother had been driven to this unrecognizable state. And all he wanted was to give him the chance to come back to himself, or what was left once the dust cleared. To leave the grit and grime of reality, of life and death, to those better suited to handling the filth.

The chain between Mikey's hands pulled taunt. He shifted in his seat, jerked his chin to one side and huffed between gritted teeth. "You don't know . . . that's why you can talk like that. You don't know what he did to me."

"I think I do," he responded in a flat monotone. "He kidnapped and abused you. Still, it's no excuse to do what you're planning." Donatello glanced into the back of the van with watering eyes and a churning stomach. They fell away to his brother. 

_I'm the animal, here. Without doubt a monster. What would she think if she knew?_

Mikey blanched then his face became mottled and drawn. His throat worked and for a moment, Don thought he was about to tell him exactly what had happened. Don wasn't sure he was prepared to hear it from his brother's lips, but he steeled himself for the blow. Mikey couldn't keep this to himself forever. Not if what he suspected were true. It had to be eating him alive from the inside out.

Don focused on the road, bracing himself. But the tense instant passed and the air deflated around him. He shot a surprised glance to his brother before turning back to the street.

Mikey had shifted in his seat and was looking out the window again. Keeping his face turned away, he said in a low, even voice, the tone of it chilled Donatello, "You say you know. That you get what happened to me. Then you should understand. He deserves this." When he glanced at Don, his eyes were hard and held an alien coldness that was as foreign to his brother's personality as the helplessness, the uselessness he felt.

"Don't get in my way."

And in that moment, Donatello knew he'd lost the chance to talk Mikey out of this, lost the chance to take this burden from him. And he wondered if he'd just lost his brother as well. Don gave a broken shake of his head, setting his jaw, clenching it. He pulled up and before the van came to a full stop, Mikey jumped out.

Donatello dropped his head and punched the steering wheel once. Then again.

* * *

Raph stood up from where he crouched next to Leo as Mikey rushed into the room, eyes wide, head snapping around, searching. Grinning, Raphael approached him. Don came into the room just behind Mikey. He fell next to Leo after dropping the medical bag next to Leo's leg and the larger black plastic bag that he'd carried with him inside the building. Inside was something large and rectangular.

"Wh-Where?"

Raph clapped Mikey on one shoulder. "Remember when I told ya, I'd get your chucks back?"

Mikey froze in place. The color drained from his already pale face. "I don't want them," he said in an automatic voice, reedy and meek.

"Well, that's good. 'Cuz I got ya something better." He wheeled Mikey around to face a closed door to one side of the kitchen. It was narrow and tall; it seemed to twist and rise higher; towering over him.

From the floor behind them, Leo groaned as Donatello attended the gash. Don pushed him back as he tried to sit forward.

"Raph . . ." Leo panted and raised his opposite arm to point at the pantry door. "I don't want h-him going in there," he ground out and growled as Donatello prodded his gaping injury.

"Don't talk," Don snapped and reached inside his medical bag, rummaging around for a compression bandage. "You've lost enough blood as it is."

Raph waved Leonardo's words and all his concern away.

Donatello stared hard into Leonardo's pain-filled eyes. "Michelangelo has made up his mind."

"No," Leo said quickly and scrambled to get up.

Donatello pushed him back again as he tried to rise; the movement making more blood gush from his wound, but the action was not without gentleness. "Leo," he said and the two eldest held their gazes until Leo dropped his.

Mikey stared at the door. He jumped as Raph touched his elbow with his hand. He looked down to see Raph was handing him something. He unfurled his fingers and Mikey saw it. In one palm he produced a tanto blade; black handled. Raph's emergency knife. It gleamed with silent menace.

Raphael reached out and took Mikey's hand. He put it in Mikey's palm and indicated the door with a jerk of his head. "Do what you need to do, bro."

Mikey turned his gaze back to the door and swallowed.

"No," Leo said weakly. "Do not go in there, Mikey."

He hesitated and blinked down at the blade in his hand. He looked at each of his brothers in turn. Don's shell was to him. He had nothing more to say, that was clear. Leonardo, pale and shuddering as Donatello applied the compression bandage, shook his head. Raphael crossed his arms and held him with his amber eyes, glittering with hunger and interest. He gave Mikey a slight tilt of his chin.

Mikey could read it all. Don already had dismissed him. Leonardo doubted him and Raph wanted to see if he was strong enough. His fingers wrapped around the handle. He squared his shoulders.

_I'll show them. I'm not afraid. I take care of myself. Clean up my own messes._

He took one tentative step forward; his foot felt heavy and hard to move; like he was walking through wet concrete. But the next step was easier and the one after that was even more so. His confidence wavered but he forced himself to be calm. Yeah, he could do this. He would show them. This would never happen again. It was over and he would end it. In fact, this was going to be a piece of cake. He smirked.

"Mikey," Leo called once more.

But Mikey didn't need advice. He didn't need encouragement or support. He didn't need his brothers to watch his back or hold him up. He was going to show them that he was a man. Finally.

"I've got this," he said over his shoulder as he turned the handle and slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, so much for 30 chapters, lol - okay one more and THEN the epilogue! Hang on, friends and keep those reviews coming, they feed my insanity! Qooo and I'm gonna need it for the next one...eep.
> 
> *eyes closed, fingers crossed that I can pull this off!*


	31. Executioner

"We never realize the power of real love unless we witness or experience a transaction, because real love costs." -Eric Samuel Timm, _Static Jedi: The Art of Hearing God Through the Noise_

* * *

 

The room was narrow, but long. The door clicked quietly closed behind him. He inched deeper into the pantry. There were shallow shelves attached to the walls on either side of him and they held boxes of dried pasta, rice and canned items. On the floor beneath the lowest shelf were two bags of potatoes and several sacks of flour. A slight moldy scent hung in the air, punctuated by a sharper metallic smell; one Mikey knew too well: blood.

There was a stack of sagging boxes and a low window with frosted panes of glass at the far end of the room with bars over it. There was no light switch or bulb that Mikey could make out so the window let in the only light to be had. It was weak, dying; a soft white-blue as night enveloped the last illumination of day.

In the dimness, Mikey's eyes strained and searched until . . . there. He found his prey. The predator caught. Fangs removed. Claws shaved down to nubs. Harmless. Nothing to fear. And yet, Mikey's heart jumped and thumped in fright as soon as he saw him. His fingers gripped the blade's handle tighter.

_He can't hurt me._

Malcolm's hands were bound together behind him and attached to a thin, exposed pipe jutting from the wall next to the window pane and running downwards into the floor. His head was bowed low over his hunched form. His clothing was filthy and rumpled. He was leaning on one thigh and hip but he shifted up to his knees at the sound of Michelangelo stepping inside. He lifted his head.

Mikey felt the breath in his throat catch. Malcolm's light blue eyes searched the dimness as Mikey moved from the shadows near the exit to stand just within in reach of the light filtering in. His eyes widened to saucers. Dust motes swirled in the frosted white of the air just above the man's head, giving his light blonde hair a strange glowing effect; a halo around his head.

Mikey froze in his tracks as Malcolm's blood-shot eyes found him and focused. Sharp recognition came over Malcolm's expression.

He huffed out a high-pitched sound twice and his swollen lips broke into a smile. "M-Mikey?" he asked, sounding hoarse and relieved. "It . . . It's you! I-"

He licked his lips and dropped his head searching the floor between them and then shifted his legs beneath him. When he raised his puffy, pasty face again, his smile was broader, filled with joy, crinkling his eyes, showing the upper dark red of his gum line above the line of large teeth. The wide split in the corner left of his bottom lips spread and a rivulet of crimson trailed down his chin to drip upon the brown tile of the floor between his knees.

In the dim light, Malcolm was only gleaming gray eyes, white flashing teeth, and haloed head. Both demon and angel. A monstrosity. A predatory creature stalking the shadows. Restrained but no less dangerous.

He guffawed. The sound broke the stillness like a cannon being fired. Mikey tensed at the outburst. He shifted his stance and suddenly wanted nothing more than to turn around and flee. But he couldn't. He came in here to finish this. That's what he was going to do.

"I  _knew_  you'd come!" Malcolm cried. He bounced once where he sat on his ankles for emphasis. "I knew you would save me!"

Mikey stared at him with unblinking eyes, hearing what he was saying and not believing what he was hearing. He shifted the blade in his sweating hand. His heart was thundering so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear the devil's voice. The sound of it was doing something to him. The sight of him, the sound of him, it was like standing in the center of a nightmare.

Part of his mind was focused on keeping the flashing images from taking over his consciousness. He could not get lost in those moments now. Not now. He had to remain present. He had to finish this monster. But Mikey's eyes continued to twitch involuntarily but would not fully complete the blink.

He wanted to pinch his eyes closed and will the monster away. He wanted to open his eyes and find that he really was in his bed right now. That none of what had happened had ever occurred. That it was all a product of a late night of horror movies and pizza that sat on the counter a little longer than advisable. He ran the length of his index finger hard across his eyes, trying to make the tic stop.

"Hurry, Mikey," Malcolm whispered. "Cut the ropes." He bounced again. "Oh, my friend! My Dream Lover! I knew you wouldn't forsake me!"

Mikey dropped his hand; stared hard at the man.

Malcolm went on, "When that ape got me, I thought he was going to kill me. You should have seen the look in his eye! He wanted to! But . . . He-He must have known that he'd have to answer to you!" Malcolm threw his head back and guffawed again. "Hurry, Mikey. Hurry!"

Comprehension dawned and Mikey realized that Malcolm thought he'd come to rescue him. As if they were truly two partners, two conspirators against his brothers. To scheme against them and steal away in the night like . . . like some twisted romance.

Michelangelo felt a thrill of revulsion ripple over his skin; making it crawl. Well, he had a surprise in store for this lunatic. He shifted the handle of the blade in his sweating palm.

A whisper in the back of his mind told him this was a bad idea. To leave, right now. Another, much fiercer than the previous one, told him to do so now would be to prove his brothers right in their estimation of him. It would prove that he was nothing more than a coward. Weak! Helpless! It roared in his voice to attack the bastard! Yes! Finish what he came in here to do!

With a low, rumbling growl, Mikey lunged forward, fangs bared, raising the blade up as he reached down and gripped Malcolm's torn shirt and hoisted him up off his knees. He brought the man up and shook him hard, then stared him in the eye.

"You . . . creep! You . . . fucking monster! You think I'm here for  _you_!? To  _save_  you!?"

Malcolm's face dropped as Mikey let out a chuckle; forced and choked, trying to sound vicious and wicked, but failing. It sounded like nothing but pain. Malcolm slumped in his grasp and Mikey nearly dropped him, not expecting that effect. He closed his eyes and let his head list to one side. His expression was all sheepish apology and though Mikey wanted nothing more than to plunge the blade through the man's skull, he couldn't. He was riveted in place.

"Oh, right. R-Right." Malcolm blinked up at him through his blackened eyes. "I know y-you're mad, Mikey. I know. I'm so sorry. I should have . . . I shouldn't have let them take you. I'll do better next time."

At that, Mikey shook his head and released him quickly, slamming him once into the metal bars, unable to stand to be so close to this creature. To have his stench filling his senses and the images like a film reel rolling in the corners of his mind grew more in focus. The memories that his scent brought. The horror. He had to step back. He had to. Malcolm grunted and slumped to the floor.

He stepped back even further, then turned.

"No." Mikey stalked in a circle, then stopped. He stared at the door. Saw his trembling hand reach for the knob. Caught it before he could touch the shining brass of it. He balled his fist and pressed it to his side.  _Focus_.

He turned back to Malcolm and hissed, "There's no  _next time_. You're never going to touch me again. Do you hear me? Never again! You're never touching anyone ever again!"

Malcolm rose up on his knees. In a conciliatory voice he tried to joke, "Don't be so mad. C'mon. Let me make it up to you." The strength in his voice faded along with any poor attempt at light-heartedness, "Look . . . I know you're disappointed in me. I know, that I should have been braver for you . . . stronger. I'm so weak and pathetic. I'm sorry."

The words hit him, one after the one, like physical blows. The apology was a bucket of ice water over him. He nearly dropped the knife. Mixed emotions rolled through him: disgust, hatred, fear and horror. He glanced again at the door.

"But with you . . . when you're with me. I'm strong and brave." He laughed out loud, the sound set Mikey's teeth on edge. "With you, I'm the hero! Like you! Like the light inside you! The light you give me! Now . . . please, Mikey. Let's just . . . let's just go."

Mikey was shaking his head, he moved a step forward, leaning towards Malcolm, but not getting too close.

" _Why?"_  

He found himself asking and cursing himself at the same time. This was the moment of his revenge! This was what he was in there for! Not to do a Q and A with the bastard that raped him. And yet, suddenly he was gripped with a desperate need for answers. A morbid curiosity filled him. He wanted to hear the reasons. Why him? Why? So he pushed away the rage and focused on the sniveling monster kneeling before him, feeling an odd sort of power. A rush of dominance and strength of will. He needed to know why Malcolm did what he did to him.

Malcolm's head bobbed back and forth on his thin shoulders. "Why?"

"WHY!?" Mikey roared.

Outside the pantry, Raph slowly unfolded his arms. Mikey's voice was muffled, but they all heard the shout. He shot a nervous glance towards his brothers. Leonardo sat leaning up against the wall as Don worked on him. His face was set in a grim expression. Don did not look his way.

"Raph," Leo panted. "I want him out of there. Right now."

Raphael fidgeted where he stood. "Let's give him a chance. He's only just gone in."

"Raph," Leo started and winced as Donatello wrapped his shoulder. "Gah," he snarled. Don ignored him. His brothers were each such babies when it came to medical care.

"Michelangelo has been presented with a choice," Don said as he split the bandage and pulled it taunt. "It was not a choice I wanted him to have, but now that he's been given it, if we interfere, it will only drive him to believe that we think him incompetent and that will lead to much more serious trouble afterwards. Regardless of the supposed closure Raphael has decided to give him."

He shot a glare at Raph who had the decency to look a bit unsure.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that even should he accomplish what he went in there to do, he will be damaged. If we interfere by going in and taking away this moment, dragging him from the crossroads, so to speak, before he's made his choice. Made it by his own free will, he will be damaged."

"Dammit," Leo growled.

"Bullshit," Raph snapped. "He needs to take care of this guy."

Don turned where he crouched. He levelled a look at Raphael. "Michelangelo is not you, Raphael. He has not developed the protective shielding that you hide behind."

Raph bristled at that and stomped towards his brother. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Don held up a hand. "Let me finish. It serves you well, to dish out pain and misery as you see fit on your enemies. It brings you some satisfaction knowing that it is within your power to hurt the ones that have hurt you just as much, if not more. However, Michelangelo has not, and has never, displayed the inherent fury and hatred of his enemies as you," he twisted to indicate Leonardo, "or even you, have. Our brother is gentle-hearted. Despite what he's gone through at the hands of this filth, he remains somewhat innocent."

Raphael dropped his fists to his sides.

"He is the last of us to kill. The last to experience doing it in cold blood."

They grew quiet. Each contemplating their pasts; their choices and their individual ghosts they each wrestled with every night. Not looking at one another. Keeping their eyes cast aside. Then slowly, one by one, they looked towards the door.

"Maybe he won't," Raph said softly after a moment. He looked at Don who dropped his gaze away. Then to Leo who looked more miserable than ever. "Maybe he won't do it."

"If he doesn't, then I will," Leo ground out.

Donatello patted him gently. His eyes went to the bag he had brought, lingered there for a moment, considering, thinking hard on all he'd just said, knowing some things, certain important things that he'd spoken to his brothers applied not just to Michelangelo. The difference was, he understood completely what he was about to trade for his brother's innocence to remain, little that was left, intact.

And up until this morning, when April had said to him what she did, he was more than happy to be rid of that piece of himself. Before, when there was really nothing left to lose. His eyes closed and he swallowed. His mind was set. The gears were in motion. Now it was up to Mikey to be strong enough to allow him to take this burden from him.

Inside the pantry, Malcolm cringed at Mikey's shout.

"I dunno," he moaned, suddenly tearful again, all mirth vanishing. "What do you mean,  _why_? Don't . . . confuse me. Why. Why? It was obvious. I told you so many times," he whined and bounced where he knelt but not out of joy but rather, frustration. He explained as though speaking to a child, bobbing his head from side to side with each word, "I needed you to know that . . . I love you."

Mikey stared at him, horrified. "You . . . you love me?" he breathed and it was more of a hiss than words. "You don't know what that word means," Mikey whispered, revolted.

Malcolm's eyes bounced between Mikey's. Then he dropped his head and broke down into loud sobbing. Mikey stood in horrified fascination. Malcolm was nodding vigorously. "Yes, Yes! Yes, I  _do_!" he screamed to the floor.

He caught his breath and went on, "I know. I know because I feel it. I know it in my heart. My heart, Mikey. My  _heart_. The part of me that's yours. That's always been yours. I know you understand. You're the only one that does. You're the only one in the entire world that gets it. You're like me. I'm like you. And I know you're just . . . just mad right now. And you want to punish me. But . . . please . . . just untie me and let's go. Let's go where we can talk civilly, okay? P-Please, Mikey."

Michelangelo's mouth hung open. He closed it with some effort. He shook his head.

Malcolm bounced. "C'mon, I don't like this," he whined. "The ropes are hurting my wrists. Your brother beat me. And it hurts. It all hurts so much. Please, Mikey, I told you I'm  _sorry_. I was weak and stupid and a big coward. But I . . ."

He searched around and sniffled. Then his face shot up, "I-I need you to say you forgive me. I forgive you. Now, I need you to say you forgive me."

It was a breath, an exhale,  _"What?"_ The room grew colder and yet Mikey continued to sweat. He felt the icy tendrils rolling down the back of his neck.

"C'mon, say it. Forgive me. For not being stronger. For not staying with you when they came to take you away. For . . . For not setting you free when I had the chance."

Mikey flinched.

"Y-You . . . You were . . . You wanted to let me go?"

Mikey turned around. The room tilted and he felt light-headed and sick. He paced and rubbed his face; stopping to lean heavily against a shelf.

He looked up into the face of a green-colored man in a one-shouldered toga holding a giant pea-pod on the side of a can. The happy expression on the giant's face made him want to punch a hole through his head. He wheeled around and as he did he drew his fists across the shelf, knocking cans and boxes to rain down over Malcolm's head, scattering pasta across the floor.

Malcolm winced and shrank back into the corner, doing his best to avoid the avalanche falling around him. He cried out as several cans hit him and bounced and rolled away.

 _"What stopped you!?"_  Mikey cried out in a strained voice, laced with the sound of chuckling, but that couldn't be right. There was nothing funny here. At first, he thought Malcolm was laughing at him, or was it the giant? Then he realized it was coming from him.

Mikey pressed the hilt of the blade to his mouth. Pressed it hard to stop from laughing like a lunatic. If he laughed now, he would not stop. But it was so ridiculous. Why was he wasting his time? But he wanted to hear. He couldn't stop.

_Someone stop me. Someone stop this!_

He wished frantically that Don would come into the room and pull him away. That Raph would swoop in and tell him his time was up. That he had his chance and blew it. Anything would be better than this.

He wanted Leo to come in and yank him by the back of his shell, before he heard anything worse than what he'd just heard. This man, this monster, saying that he was going to let him go, but continued to beat and rape him instead. Why? What had he done? What could he have done to make Malcolm change his mind? Was it all bullshit? He felt like he was going mad.

He wanted to be rescued but could not turn around and leave. There was no strength in his body to do so. He lowered himself with watery legs to kneel before Malcolm, unable to stand any longer. His arms felt like they were coated in tar. Heavy and tired, he gazed into his attacker's face.

"I was afraid," Malcolm whispered and Mikey watched his bottom lip tremble. A line of spit and blood dribbled down to hang and jitter with every word spoken. "I thought you'd never come back to me if I did. I couldn't risk it. I wasn't strong enough to try. You don't know how long I waited. How long I planned for everything to go just right. Please, let's get out of here."

Mikey dropped his eyes, feeling his stomach flip and roil.

"Please. I love you, Mikey. I love you. I can't live without you. I know you feel the same way. I know you're here to save me. I know you love me. Untie me and let's leave. We'll be happy again. I promise. No more fighting. No more hurting. I-I swear!"

"N-No, you're  _lying_." Mikey leaned forward, he pointed the blade at him, but Malcolm had dropped his face away, keeping it low and turned away and he didn't notice it. "You're gonna say whatever you need to now. Now that we've got you. Y-You're a worm."

Malcolm nodded. "I'm a worm," he repeated.

Mikey's chest was heaving. "You're a devil! A demon!"

"You're right! You're right. I'm nothing. I'm filth. I'm a filthy pig. But I . . . I swear I will do better. Let me go. Mikey, you can punish me after we leave. You can do whatever you want to me, I won't stop you. I love you, I love you, ohho god."

"Why . . . How could you do that to me . . . how can you sit here and say you . . ." he choked on the word, " _love_  me. But what you did," Mikey stopped and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and pinched his eyes closed. "You . . . you kidnapped me. You took me away from my family. You beat me and you . . ." He curled forward and pressed the heel of his hand to his head between his eyes and shuddered.

"I'm sorry for that. I am. For our fighting. But I'm not sorry for taking you away from them. I had to get you somewhere safe."

 _"Safe?!"_  Mikey roared, surfacing from his hand.

He lunged at Malcolm and punched him once on the side of the head, then again and again as the man fell back against the wall, squirming and hollering, pleading with wordless sounds. Bucking and thrashing against the knots Raphael tied him with. Mikey felt the rage roiling within him. Black and galloping, a hundred wild horses made of steel and smoke, fire and steam. He felt himself being trampled by them. Crushed beneath the thundering hooves, swallowed by the mud below. Suffocating in it. Swallowing it.

_No. Help me. Help me!_

Panting, Mikey caught hold of himself and fell back. Both hands now pressed hard into his forehead. "I was safe with my  _brothers_. You  _nutcase!_  You took me and . . . hurt me. You . . .  _raped_  me."

"N-Noo," Malcolm moaned and lumbered to sit up. "You wanted me to. You wanted it!"

Mikey leaned forward and punched him again in the mouth. "Shut up!  _Shut up!"_ he screamed. "I  _hate_  you!"

"MMMnnooo," Malcolm cried out, more piteously than before and he twisted his torso one way then another to avoid the oncoming blows. He gathered himself and kicked knocking Mikey back. "Don't say that," he pleaded and blubbered onto his shoulder. "It's not true! You're mad, you're just mad. It's not true!"

"I lost my tail! My tail! You  _creep_! You don't even know what that means to me! You have no idea! And the nightmares . . . you . . . you're a monster!"

Mikey felt the rage twist as it drove deeper within him, then. Sharp and fine, quiet now. A single fracture splitting a glass pane. The base of him, the foundation of him, splintering. The monumental unfairness of what happened to him weighed upon the weak point inside of him. The man's justification, his continued explanation that it was all done out of some twisted notion of love. He couldn't take it. He was breaking. He was shattering.

He didn't want to hear anymore. He couldn't. He couldn't! No more!

He surged forward. He brought the knife up to the man's sweating throat as he gripped Malcolm by the thinning hair of his scalp and pulled his head back. He was quivering. His eyes, wild with rage, bounced between Malcolm's.

"D-Don't hurt m-me," Malcolm whimpered in a small voice.

Mikey pressed the edge harder until a line of crimson broke the surface and trailed along the silver of the blade.

"I'm s-sorry. I did it all out of  _love_ ," Malcolm said in a great gasping sob. "S-S-Save me, Mikey," he whispered. "Save me."

A shuddering tremor went through Mikey. The fracture deepened, more lines cracked within him. Weakening him. He held his breath as Malcolm gritted his teeth.

One swift move and it would be over. The moment was here, it was now. He tensed and Malcolm whimpered again. Mikey's face was suddenly pressed close.

"I should. I  _should_ ," he ground out between gritted teeth.

"Please, Mikey," Malcolm moaned. "Please." His tears came fresh, pouring down to mingle with the snot and blood that coated the lower half of his face.

His fingers thrummed along the hilt, grasping so hard they were starting to go numb. But there was also a numbness taking over inside of him. A slick, icy feeling that was traveling through his limbs to converge in the center of him. Freezing him and emptying him out. Carving hollows into him. There was no more hate, no more disgust, there was nothing. There was an absence.

He teetered on the edge of the nothingness; felt the abysmal lure of it. Beyond the shattering there would be nothing left of him.

He felt something hot against his knuckles. Searing them. Mikey's eyes shot to his hand; the blood trickling from where the edge of the blade had just sliced into Malcolm's skin. The blood. It wasn't only Malcolm's. In fact, it wasn't his at all, Mikey thought.

It was all his own. His pain. Written in this man's blood. So dark, nearly black, he saw the light of his eyes, the truth of what he endured, reflected in that glossy surface. Reflected in a million rotating cells; still alive . . . all of it.

The horror of the events; the fear, the beatings, the rape; the soldier who had come to kill him, the molestations; Karai's soft hands, her luminous eyes and then the blood. The soldier's pool of it, then hers and his own, on his thighs, between his legs, pouring out of his tail, trickling over his chest and chin. The blood everywhere. On everything.

Waves hit him, emotions with no description. The madness and fright. The terror and desperation. And the anger. The fury at the unfairness of it. The helplessness that buoyed him along; drowning him and suffocating him while holding him aloft and detached. All of this, it lived in this blood. It lived in him with this blood. This blood he could not take and remain whole.

It had to end here. It had to come to a stop. But if he took it, it would live in him.

He pinched his eyes shut.

"M-Mikey?"

"Shh-h," he barely managed to make the sound.

He was trembling and slowly, he uncurled his fingers from Malcolm's hair. The knife moved away, as Mikey folded in on himself and back. He shuffled back on his bottom, using his heels and hands to propel him away.

"Wh-What are you doing?" Malcolm blinked out huge tear drops. "Can we . . . can we go now?"

Michelangelo turned and crawled towards the door. Blind with his tears. Behind him, Malcolm continued to ask if they could leave together, now. To come back. His chest was heaving. His stomach rolled, he was going to be sick.

He scrambled to his knees, then up to his feet. He threw open the door and fell forward where he was violently ill.

Raphael was on him.

"Mikey! Mikey, you okay?" There was a pause as Mikey continued to retch and empty his stomach. "Did . . . Did you . . . ?" Mikey shook his head. Raph grew quiet. He rubbed his shell gently. Mikey slowly lifted his head. Raph was looking down at him. "It's okay," he said quietly. Mikey wasn't sure but there seemed to be relief in Raphael's tone.

"No, it's not. It's not okay. I . . . I couldn't do it."

"That's alright, Mikey," he said in a tender voice that wavered a little on the edges. He looked up at Donatello and Leonardo, then back to his little brother. "I just wanted to give you the chance, if you wanted to take it."

"I'm so pathetic," he murmured and made a choked sound in the back of his throat.

Raph pulled him suddenly into a furious embrace; kneeling in his brother's stomach contents. "Don't you ever say that again," Raph snarled into the top of his head. Mikey fumbled, but couldn't break free. Raph held him tightly, one hand pressed against the back of his head. "You gotta be you. And I don't wantcha any other way. None of us do."

Mikey slowly returned the hug, having no other alternative. There was no way to get free from the vice-like grip of his larger brother's embrace. He glanced up over Raph's shoulder to see Donatello looking not at him, but into the room as he stood propping Leonardo up. His eyes were glittering and his face was filled with some intense emotion.

Mikey's eyes bounced to Leo. His breath caught. Leonardo was gazing down at him with a look of fierce pride.

A sheepish smile ghosted over his face as he dropped his eyes, unable to maintain the eye-contact. He felt shaky and confused, but in the warmth of Raphael's arms, caught in the grace of Leonardo's deep approval, he felt safe. He hiccupped back a sob that suddenly welled up and formed in his throat. He pushed his face into Raphael's shoulder to hide his eyes.

"I'm proud of ya, kid," Raphael said as Mikey trembled.

He squeezed him again and then finally, Raph released Mikey and he nearly collapsed as he tried to pull air back into his crushed lungs. Raph pulled him up to stand and turned to the pantry.

"I guess I'll just . . ."

"What! N-No . . ." Mikey said, startling them all. "I-I mean . . . I want him to . . . it's just . . ." he struggled. The brother's faces snapped between each other. "Can't we just . . . go home now?"

Raph turned to the pantry, he pulled his sai from his belt, "Yeah, Mikey, 'course. Don will take you and Leo. While I have some -"

Donatello stopped him with a hand on his arm. He paused and glanced from Mikey who was receiving a light squeeze of support on his shoulder by Leo with one hand to Don who was looking grim and serious. His younger brother needed this over. Needed it clean. Only he could give that. At least, he would give the impression of doing so.

"No. Our little brother needs this over." He snapped his fingers. "Done. And . . . he needs you right now, Raphael." He glanced at Mikey. "I'll make it quick." Mikey dropped his eyes to the floor. "Take Leo and Mikey home."

"Quick 'n painless!? Oh, no, this guy deserves to –"

Don cut him off with a look that left the rest of what he was about to say to die in his throat. There was something in Donatello's eyes. A coldness. It chilled him.

In a low voice, Donatello spoke as he yanked Raphael to one side, "If you want to help Mikey get past this you will do exactly as I say. I spoke to Leo while patching him up, when Mikey was in there. A mistake we all agree on," Raph swallowed and nodded morosely. "We agree it is in everyone's best interest to do this clean. Simple. Effective and efficient."

Raphael looked at him as though he'd grown another head.

"Mikey doesn't need this to linger and fester. He doesn't want this man's death on any of our consciences." He paused. "Revenge is not what is needed here, Raphael. Closure, that's all. I can give that to him, but only if you allow me to. Don't press the issue."

"But –"

"C'mon, Raphie, I just want to go home," Mikey said in a quiet voice and it was this use of his childhood nickname coming from Michelangelo that affected him and got through the bloodlust that came so naturally to Raphael. Because just like that, he made up his mind to give Mikey what he needed.

Don saw the change in his brother's eyes. From killer to brother like a light switch going off. Some of them were lucky that way. They could turn it on and off so easily. Leo had it in him. As did Raphael. Mikey did not. It was not what he was, it had no place within the makeup of his personality and spirit.

He stooped and picked up his medical bag. Though he had a theory, it was time to test it and see what he himself was comprised of.

"Yes. Go home. I will dispose of the remains," Don said casually to the group in general as Raph shot him one more quizzical look before helping Mikey escort their wounded older brother from the house.

"Thank you, Don," Leo said as he limped past, supported by his younger brothers on either side.

"Of course," Donatello murmured. "It was your plan, after all. I am merely here to act upon your order."

Leonardo frowned and then nodded, knowing that all he had done was agree with Donatello that someone needed to end Malcolm quickly and quietly and then dispose of the body. In order to spare Michelangelo any further harm. He never told Don that it had to be him. He never asked. In fact, he had planned on giving Raph the go-ahead as soon as he spotted Mikey falling out of the room. He never imagined that Donatello would take control like this. But he didn't question his enigmatic brother.

He was too tired, too drained from the pain in his shoulder and the worry when Mikey was alone in that room with the madman. And honestly, he was glad to have someone else taking care of loose ends for a change. He took in a slow breath and blew it out.

They moved together to leave when Mikey halted. Leo and Raph stopped with him. He gave Donatello a hesitant look. "Are . . . Will you . . . I mean . . . what about?"

Don shook his head. "It's over, Michelangelo. All of it. As of now, he is gone. Think of him no more." Mikey swallowed and turned with his brothers. He added, "You did well. As I knew you would. I never doubted you, little brother."

Mikey ducked his head and gave a shaky exhale, then Raph said, "C'mon, let's get Fearless home before someone else decides to plug him." Raph laughed at Leonardo's scowl. "Well that's, what? Like six times in the last week. It's like you're tryin' ta out-tough me or somethin'. Maybe your just gettin' old."

"Ha-ha."

As his brothers exited the house, and silence fell over the room, Donatello turned to the pantry. He crouched and gathered the large plastic bag he'd brought. It bumped against his leg as he stepped into the room. He entered and set the materials down; kneeling and opening the medical bag. Carefully, he rummaged inside. He produced a syringe.

Malcolm looked around. He eyed the bag and the mutant in the frayed jacket that resembled a laboratory coat . . . or a doctor's coat. He remembered the gunshot wound on the one in blue's shoulder. He had to be the one that stitched Karai's mutant lover. The medic of the family.

"Did . . . Did Mikey send you in here to help me?"

"Something like that."

Donatello strode up to him and crouched. With deft movements, he tilted Malcolm's head to one side and injected the needle into his neck, just under his jaw-line.

 _"Ouch!"_  Malcolm squirmed. Donatello removed the needle and turned back to his bag without a word. "What . . . What was that? A pain killer? Hey, what  _was_  that?"

With care, Donatello unrolled a cotton towel. He then started to remove several surgical tools from the inside of the bag and line them up side by side on the surface of the towel. The silver teeth of the bone saw gleamed in the dying light.

Don shook his head absentmindedly. "It is a highly modified form of butorphanol mixed with medetomidine. Well, a form of it. Not a pain-killer so much as an immobilizing agent."

Donatello raised a pair of heavy snips and twisted it one way then the other, then he cocked his brow and glanced at Malcolm before returning to his task. With each new tool that he examined and set aside, he felt himself becoming more detached. As though each implement represented a piece of his soul that he was exchanging. But none of that mattered. This was for Mikey. For having to remove a sensitive piece of his little brother's anatomy. For his torture and his innocence shattered.

He knew the price it would cost him. And before this morning he gladly accepted it. Looked forward to it. Now he bore the burden of regret. For how could she ever love someone capable of what he was about to do to this man?

"Wh-What? Why did you give this to me?" When Donatello did not answer panic began to set in. Even as he felt his legs and arms going numb, his heart began to race. He watched Donatello twist around to reach into the large plastic bag. "Answer me!"

He pulled back the plastic to reveal a rectangular plastic bin. It was very large. He unsnapped the lid and produced several gallons of something with a skull and crossbones drawn crudely on the side with a black marker.

Next he removed a pair of heavy rubber gloves. Two fingers were snipped away, and the material was glued securely where the fingers were taken.

Malcolm licked at his lips and found them growing tingling with numbness.

"What is . . . Where's Mikey? I-I want to see him." He stretched his neck and tried to rise up on his legs, but they were not responding. "What are you doing? Michelangelo?" he called. Then louder,  _"Mikey!?"_

"Do not say his name again," Donatello said calmly as he pulled one glove on then the other.

"Mikey . . .?" he called again, feeling his tongue getting heavy in his mouth.

Donatello stopped what he was doing. He stared at him with a grim expression. "If you pray then I would suggest you start now."

"Please . . . I didn't mean . . . I love him. I never . . . please."

"I am not your god. I am merely your executioner."

He reached out behind his body and slowly closed the door.

# # #

The van pulled away, spraying gravel as the first of many screams cut through the twilight night. Mikey shifted in his seat. He glanced at Leo behind him, holding his shoulder and wincing with the vehicle's bumps.

"Did you hear something?"

Leo looked up and frowned. He caught Raph's eyes in the rear-view mirror. Knowing something was up. Knowing what was happening in that room, in that house of horrors they were leaving behind was anything but quick and clean. A silent communication passed between them.

Leo shifted where he sat. Uneasiness weighed on him. He would need to talk to Donatello about this. Later. After some time had passed and they all healed a bit. For now, he was too tired to do much but hold his throbbing arm and yearn for his bed.

"No. It was just the van's breaks squealing."

"Oh," Mikey turned in his seat. Leo saw him glance once into the side mirror at the house. A look of relief washed over his face and Leo leaned his head back against the side of the van and closed his eyes. In the distance, the shrieking faded back until there was only the sound of the van's wheels rolling against pavement.

And he wondered, was one brother's peace of mind worth the price of another's?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *glances around* everyone still breathing? Need resuscitation?
> 
> Hang on for the Epilogue, dear readers.
> 
> (I owe a BIG thank you to my daughter ((Bitter Shadow - yep, she's on here)) who sat next to me and gave me encouragement as I struggled and wrestled for like, 20-30 minutes to get this title and who gave her input with whether I should keep or delete a few lines at the very end there. Love ya, sweetie!)
> 
> xo


	32. Epilogue

_'Just take all of your pain_

_Just put it on me_

_So that you can breathe_  –' Arcade Fire,  _Awful Sound_

* * *

 

A day went by, and another; they bled into each other and soon she didn't know how, but nearly a week had gone by.

April stood by the entrance, counting the minutes; measuring the hours against her building anxiety; watching and waiting for his return. Preparing the words she would tell him, rehearsing them over and over in her mind, rolling them around, practicing different combinations and phrases; determined to make him understand. Things could not go on this way. She could not survive like this. Orbiting him and mapping out the patterns of his existence but never coming too close to that bright center that was his heart out of fear that he would immolate her.

She would burn for him and gladly. He had to know this. He had to see that his fire was the only thing powerful enough to weld the broken pieces inside of her back together.

She'd been weak. She'd been wrong. She'd been blinded by half-truths spoken out of supposed consideration for her well-being. Little suspecting that it was a jealous fear that motivated her father and his; or at least, a failing to understand. What they had was consuming, yes. But they thrived in that obliteration; in that blind joy. And now having been so close to him and his family again, she could not return to the hollow existence; she could not go back to the darkness that waited for her above ground.

And she knew that he could not continue becoming this being so devoid of warmth, so removed; isolated from his own emotions. Whether his brothers and father saw it or not, she would not rest until she at least tried to rescue him from the fate that lay ahead. Of emptiness and love forsaken; a shell without a spirit; a mind without the passion of motivation and drive. The cold calculation of a life separated from the chaos and joy of emotions like love and happiness.

The call was made to Casey. She would have liked to do it face to face, but that was impossible. Casey had left the city on a construction job with an uncle. It had to be over the phone. The break up was a long time in coming and he was not only surprisingly graceful, but he insisted there was no hard feelings and that he'd always be there for her, if she needed him.

There was a slight suspicion about a certain woman by the name of Gabrielle that Casey worked as a secretary at his uncle's construction and roofing company. A name that crossed his phone on more than one occasion. A woman with a husky voice that called occasionally for him at her place. But the suspicion felt more like relief than anything else. In truth, she hoped that maybe he'd found someone in the time he spent being pushed aside while she immersed herself in her many manic obsessions; the temporary distractions meant to keep her from what was unhealthy. To keep her from what made up her core.

She realized, having come back here, having gone through this nightmare with his little brother that life was too large an entity to fortify with caution and care. Too wild to tame with fragile anxiety and brittle worry. The terror and evils crept along the sidelines and would not submit to weak pleading and feints.

April saw that even the most guarded could fall. Even the most protected could be stolen away and broken. It brought a fright into her heart, foreign and strange, but it gripped her with an intensity that left her breathless. It would not relent. She needed to seize her life back from those that had chased it from her. She needed to pounce and retake what was hers, to choke every drop of precious essence from it before her time was up. Before some lurking monstrosity took its turn with him.

April closed her eyes, felt the fatigue warring with her determination. When she opened them again, she watched Michelangelo cross into the kitchen with quiet care to sit at the table. He'd slept through the first two days back. Waking once to use the bathroom, moving half-asleep between the rooms, then back to sleep.

Since he'd woken he'd been subdued and quiet. No sign of the earlier anger that suffused his character for all these weeks. The air around him seemed vacant and heavy. When she got too close to him it felt like drowning. As though there were a deep puncture in the center of him that created an invisible vortex, dragging down and devouring all the energy within the space around him.

Master Splinter did not seem to be affected. If he felt it, and she was sure he did, he pointedly ignored the power of it. As though his will were greater than anything causing his son harm. That his presence would conquer it, eventually. Obscure it, erase it with time. Even now, he moved around Mikey and set to making him and his brothers' dinner with a calm countenance and confident movements.

Raph came in and gave his shoulder a squeeze before assisting Master Splinter. Like Master Splinter, Raph was not afraid of the seeping hole that made up the center of his brother's spirit. Unlike their father, though, Raph's face betrayed the fact that he could feel it. Every time he came close to Mikey, he had a pinched look around his eyes. But it was his own stubborn determination to protect his little brother that triumphed over any discomfort time and again. For he was ever at his side, tending to him.

Mikey no longer fought about his brother doting on him. He seemed to appreciate the efforts his family was taking to help him recover. But the sadness, the quiet encroaching depression lingered. Festering.

Not for the first time she saw so clearly how precariously he balanced between despair and healing. Between sliding into depression and surfacing. He had a long way to go and his healing was only just beginning.

And not for the first time, April knew that it could have been Don. That is was really only a matter of time before it would be. Any of them. Each of them. Eventually, with the life they lived . . . it was inevitable. That some dark force would erupt into their sheltered lives and render them helpless and broken. They were up against everything. They had few resources to fall back on besides each other.

April felt her hands tighten into fists. She couldn't let another day go by without telling him. Even if he rejected her. At least he'd know. He'd know that someone loved him. Loved him more than anything else in all the world. And like Casey, she would make sure that he understood that no matter what, he could count on her. She would always be someone he or any of his brothers could turn to for help. She would deal with her feelings in her own way, in her own time, but she would not forsake them in the meantime. Friends stood by each other.

As the days continued to pass without sign, her lonely vigil was ghosted at times by a worried Leonardo recovering from his wounds. She'd look at him and catch him glancing at his phone and sigh with a shake of his head.

They hadn't heard from Don since the night they'd left the house. Michelangelo had gotten a text later that night with a simple phrase of:  _It's done. Rest + recover. Will be home soon. Need a day or two._ Despite Master Splinter's confidence that Donatello would be home soon, worry ate at him. It burrowed creases in his forehead. He was lost in his last conversation with his younger brother. Eyes distant and full of serious contemplation.

If she wasn't so caught up in her own concerns, she would have been a better supportive figure for him. Instead, they remained. Separate but tied by their unspoken fears, anxieties and doubt.

She scratched at her arm and was surprised to see raised welts there. Leo broke from his quiet reverie and took notice. He moved in close to her. With gentle care, he took her wrist and turned her arm back from where she tried to hide the evidence of her worry. He made a soft sound.

"April," he said.

She laughed nervously. "I break out when I'm worried about something."

He searched her eyes. When she glanced again towards the door and fixed her gaze on it as she had for the past hour, Leo released her arm and said, "Why don't you go home." Her face snapped around and she opened her mouth, but Leo went on, "Just for a bit. Take a shower, take a nap. I'll call you when he gets home."

She had to admit, a shower sounded like heaven. She nodded, "Okay, Leo. Just -"

He gave her a soft smile, keeping his eyes on her, full of a lingering sadness that spoke of understanding what it was like to love and lose someone. "As soon as he gets back, you'll know."

She moved towards the exit, pausing as he added, "And if you, uh, if he happens to contact you first . . . could you . . ."

She shook her head and rubbed at her arm. A smile full of hurt crossed her face. "Sure, Leo. Only . . . you know he hasn't called me for years. I doubt he'll start now."

He dropped his eyes as he ducked his head, realizing he'd hurt her with his careless comment. He'd been so tired since Malcolm stabbed his wounded shoulder and they'd left that awful house. It had been only a few days, but between worrying about Mikey readjusting to life after all this mess and fretting over Donatello's continued disappearance, he'd gotten no sleep. Despite the weariness that seemed to live in his bones and heart. The ache in his shoulder and chest didn't help things, either.

He'd browsed Donatello's medicine cabinet, but was honestly overwhelmed by the intimidating little plastic tubes filled with strange pills. He was never one to self-medicate and even when Don would administer to him, he was wary and often only took half the amount of what was given. If he were truthful, he'd admit that it scared him, a little. These unknown medicines and odd little pills. He would not touch any of it without Don's counsel.

He wanted Donatello home. Only then would he be able to rest.

But that was only partially true, for the other thing that kept him awake was less easily amended. Now that the nightmare with Michelangelo was really over, he felt the weight of his grief more sharply. It was a constant pressure. A consistent feeling of forcing himself to inhale and exhale, as though his lungs had forgotten to work of their own accord. It haunted the quiet moments between the seconds that counted out his lonely existence.

When he blinked he saw her eyes flash and his heart would quicken. Should he close his eyes as sleep finally pulled at him, it was only to awaken minutes later, shaken and gasping, looking into his empty hands for her presence, knowing she was just there; the scent of her lingering; the sound of her murmuring ghosting his inner ear. But she was gone. And the reality of this fact remained bitter and unrelenting.

He focused on April's face, her expression one of patient waiting. A wall of regret hit him, then and he needed to tell April something. It became important that she knew this.

April thought he'd say nothing more, moved to leave, but he made a soft sound and she paused.

"I was never against it."

He glanced over his shoulder to where Splinter was settling himself down next to Mikey. As if checking to make sure his father was out of ear shot. Raph was saying something to Mikey that they couldn't hear. A smile broke over his face, but it was fleeting. Still. It was like the sun peeking through the thunder-gray clouds, even for just a glimpse, that golden light remained a powerful sign of hope. But when Leonardo turned back to her his expression only held sodden regret.

Though she didn't know to what he referred, she felt something bracing within her heart and mind. But bracing against what? April held her breath, feeling her heart pounding uncomfortably against her ribs with this sudden whispered profession.

He fidgeted. "Donatello knew how I felt. That I was supportive."

April blinked once, hard. She willed herself to stay perfectly still. She knew she needed to hear what he was confessing. No matter how it may affect her.

In an undertone he added, "When it was easy to be so." He made a disgruntled noise through his nose. "I've been a coward when it comes to . . . things of this nature. Maybe if I had . . . then she . . . if I hadn't . . ." he struggled, throat working, emotion clouding his eyes. He looked up but only held her gaze for a moment to retrain his thoughts. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

"I should have said something, then. I should have defended you and . . . him. I'm . . . so sorry, April."

She felt her eyes burning as she shook her head. "It's okay," she said, a little breathlessly, a little too quickly, automatically trying to wipe away heat of anger flaring within her chest.

If they had had an  _ally_. Someone to speak up for them. Then maybe, it would not have come to this. Everything could have been different. They could have been happy. The thought crippled her. She clutched at the front of her shirt. Forced herself to breathe calmly. To ignore the spinning of the room and the violent need to punch him in the face. To scream.

"I think he, uh," he ducked his head again and closed his eyes, looking a little pale. Looking all the world like a child full of shame. He brought his hand up to cover the thick bandage at his shoulder. Keeping his head lowered, he said, "I think he hates me because I, um, didn't stick up for his feelings, uh, a-against Master Splinter."

He fell quiet, blinking his watering eyes and looking everywhere but at her.

April had no idea what to say. Waves of conflicting emotions swept through her. Mostly she wanted to punch him. To scream at him. But then the anger ebbed and she felt a heavy sadness sweep through her body. She stepped towards him on wobbling legs and placed one hand against his cheek.

"You're wrong. He doesn't hate you," she promised, wanting to add,  _it's me he despises. After all, I'm the one who should have fought for what we had._

He leaned into her palm, blinked slowly, relishing the gentle contact, the forgiveness between the spoken words. But he pulled away, stepped back and glanced again towards his father, ultimately rejecting her offering. She did not try to convince him.

"I would if I were him. And I do."

She frowned, tilted her head.

Leo clarified, "Hate myself for not being a better friend . . . and brother."

 _But mostly, for not allowing myself to love because of duty and some hollow notion of honor. For allowing the frustration and the unfairness that was my life hinder me helping my brother and my closest friend,_  he thought, unable to voice this. It hurt too much. It did no good. Now it was too late. It would only prove his cowardice.

"I'm glad you told me," she managed in a tight voice. Then, "I should go."

Maybe one day she could tell him she forgave him for his silence. Right now, she could only focus on what she needed to do to repair what she had broken between herself and the love of her life.

* * *

The apartment was dark as she stepped through the door, tossing her keys on top of the desk near the entryway. Leonardo's confession had left her shaken and uneasy. It only revealed how fucked up all of it had been. At the time, it seemed as though it were she and Don against the entire world. It left room to doubt. To fear that maybe their fathers were right. That something was wrong with the relationship.

If only he'd have said  _something_. No wonder Don kept to himself so much, even from his own brothers. He must have felt more betrayed by Leo than even her. Most likely he resented Leo, maybe even hated him as Leonardo feared. He said that Donatello knew he supported the situation. They must have talked.

_Dammit, Leo._

She blew out a breath. Shook out her fingertips. No. It didn't matter. She had to focus on the next step. She kicked off her shoes and then reached up to flick the light switch.

"Don't."

She froze. Eyes wide in the darkness, searching until she caught the outline of him. There. Barely highlighted from the lights of the neighborhood street lamps through the kitchen window behind him, he stood; leaning against the corner of the wall that separated her living-room from the hall beyond. Looming over her despite the space that separated them. An oppressive feeling came to her, it blotted out the initial pang of joy at seeing him there. Her heart felt too large, filling in the empty space inside, choking her. And she found she was afraid.

"Donatello?" she managed and wondered why she was whispering.

He shifted. "Yes."

It wasn't a question. But there was a lingering hesitance that made her hold her breath. She gathered what courage she could find between her fluttering heart and her trembling legs and moved forward. Somehow crossing the space between them. He did not move. Only watched her. Some internal light firing his bright eyes that made them two pools in the surrounding darkness. A thought struck her.

"Are you hurt?"

He laughed at that and it startled her. She made out the white of his teeth. His canine glinting as he turned his head to one side, shaking it.

"I would need that question to be more specific," he said and straightened up.

"What? What are you . . ."

His hands snapped out from where they'd been buried in the pockets of his lab coat. He gripped her arms and pushed her backwards. She gasped as her feet shuffled back and back until she was once more in front of her entranceway. Then he shoved her against the door. She yelped and strained to move her face to one side. Through his punishing hold, she felt him shaking and that alone calmed her initial burst of fright. She inhaled through her nose and composed herself. Her body relaxed even as he held her roughly against the door. April turned to look him in the eye. His face was close to hers, uncomfortably so, but she held onto her resolve. Staring into his eyes; wild and flashing. A bitter smell hit her. One that made her gut churn and her gorge rise.

It smelled like blood.

"What are you doing?" she asked and was proud of the evenness of it.

She ignored the way her body felt dipped in icy water. She would not be afraid of him. If he was trying to frighten or intimidate her, he would have to do far more than this. If he was angry with her for what she'd said earlier, about loving him still, then they'd have to face that together and work it out. No matter what, she would not back down until she knew he understood that she was never going to get over him. That he was everything to her. Only then would she accept his anger; even his refusal. Her heart pinched and it stole her breath. She swallowed.

But in looking into his eyes, in the strangeness of this behavior, she felt there was more here than what was just between them. The smell. The rough feel of his hands, coated in something dried and dark. She pulled her mind from the realization that stood front and center of her rational thought. His hands were covered in dried blood. Something had happened.

Behind this violent outburst was something raw and churning. It was heated like lust, but uglier; something rotting behind the garden roses; something bleeding into the gold. Behind his eyes – the pleading child; the howling animal; injured and lost. It was an awful sound that only her heart could hear.

"Donatello. Talk to me."

His face split into a grin and it was savage. She could only think how magnificent he was. And the waves of her heart beat reverberated through her like thunder on the expansive plain that was her soul.

"That's exactly what I intend to do, Ms. O'Neil." He was speaking through gritted teeth.

She had never seen him in such a state. Could not place what this was. Anger? Madness? What had happened in that house? A chill went through her.

He added, "But I think we should go downstairs. There's something you need to see."

She blinked at that. The shop? She had inherited her aunt's second hand shop and had run it sporadically through the years. Currently it was not in use. But if he wanted to go down there, for whatever reason, to speak to her, perhaps because it was more or less neutral territory, then she would obey the odd order. She made an attempt at a shrug. Her throat worked.

She forced out, "Okay. If that's what you want. Let's go."

He backed up and released her arms. Her eyes flickered over the ends of his sleeves, they too, were darkened by the stain. Her gaze shot to his face. Nearly too quick to catch, a glimmer of panic flitted through his eyes. The moment of indecision passed, fleeting as it was. He turned to pull open the door, forcing her to shuffle out of the way or be crushed between the wall and it and marched through the opening. Muttering.

They descended into darkness. The stairs creaked beneath their weight. The only sound disturbing the quiet of the stifled air of the unused shop. The shapes of items hidden beneath tarps covered in dust loomed throughout the room like ghosts caught in the process of gathering for some malicious plotting. She brushed the unsettling thought from her mind. She moved to the base of the stairs to reach up to pull the chain for the bulb overhead.

He grabbed her arm. "Not yet."

She exhaled and forced her hands into the back pockets of her jeans as he released her and stepped back. His face darted around until he spotted what he searched for. He stilled.

"Now will you talk to me? What is going on?"

"I wanted to see you. After . . . To see what you thought of . . . No, I'm getting ahead of myself. I wanted to see you. Alone. So I waited here."

"Why didn't you come home? You knew where to find me."

"You know why. I needed to talk to you about what you said. I needed some privacy. Something sorely lacking in that hole."

"Leo is worried. Maybe call him and . . ."

That was the wrong thing to say.

He huffed and laughed darkly. "Let him stew." He crossed his arms and she frowned as he paced, noticing the hem of his lab coat was tattered and dark. Covered in something. That's when she caught the smell again. A brittle tang. Fright hit her.

"Don, what happened? Are you hurt?"

He laughed again and she stiffened. Her temper flared. She'd had enough. "Stop that. Right now. Stop this act." She approached him. Heart in her throat. "Whatever game this is that you're playing. It's over."

"You like that, don't you?" he sneered.

She blinked. Stunned by both his expression and his harsh words. This was not like the composed, calm man that she'd seen working quietly in the lair the last few weeks. There was a bright glint to his eyes. A manic gleam.

"Being the one to end things."

His words speared her. She choked, "Don, that's not fair."

He was smiling, but it faltered then. He dropped his arms. His face fell into a serious expression. "Maybe not. But it's my turn, now."

A renewed sense of fear hit her. Her voice softened and she crept closer. She reached out to him. "Don, please. Let's go upstairs and sit down. You need to wash up. Th-There's some things I need to tell you."

He stepped back. "Oh? But you've said it, remember? You blurted it before I left. You had to make things harder on me than it already was going to be. But that's what you're good at, isn't it?" The manic flare came back into his eyes and he lurched forward. He grabbed her arms and gave her a short shake. "Making my life a complicated mess. A series of miseries piling on top of one another. Torturing me."

She shook her head. "I never meant . . . to hurt you."

"But you  _did_! When you came into my room, when you stood there, when I fell to my knees and you told me it had been  _fun_! Like I was a game to you. To use. To discard when you were finished with me. Like everything . . . everything we said to each other was only . . .  _lies_." His voice rose and trembled.  _"Lies!"_  he shouted in her face and shook her.

"You were everything to me. You were . . ." He dropped his head low and shook it.

She trembled and felt the hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She could only take in what he was saying, his words stealing away her protests. His fingers tightened their hold. She squeaked in pain.

When he spoke again, his voice was low, "Then after all this time. When we're going through a nightmare, you come back, you show up and corner me. While I was weak. Like a predator scenting my frailty. You had the nerve to announce that you still  _love_  me? HA! Ha-ha . . ." the chuckling died off. "What am I . . . What should I . . . what could I do?"

He picked up his face and it was a mask of anguish. "Because it was too late! Don't you see? I had made up my mind, April. I was going to rid myself of this."

He released her and she stumbled back, hitting into a stool and knocking it over. It crashed into the counter, sending several miniature vases to shatter against the concrete floor. He gripped his coat and pulled it off his shoulders, then slammed his hands into his chest and clutched at where his heart would be.

"I'm a monster now. I was one before, only on the outside. I thought it would be enough. To have a heart, a good heart, for you to know and love. I thought that would be enough to stand in the way of everything else. But I was wrong. You threw me aside as soon as you were questioned. As soon as they fed you enough to doubt, you made your decision. So, I made one of my own. I decided to be what you thought of me. What your father knew I was all along. What my own father knew."

"Donatello," she moaned.

"I should not be loved. I could not be loved."

She was shaking her head, standing before him. Her hands balled into fists. "No. No, Donatello. I won't stand here and listen to this garbage from you. You know better. You remember like I do. What we said . . . the promises."

"Promises you broke!" he shouted and pointed at her. "You said you'd always love me," he accused. "You said you loved my heart. That nothing would come between us! Th-that you'd protect me."

"I do love you!" she spat and lurched forward, reaching for him, but he backed away, hands up protectively.

"I was wrong to let them control me. But I was just a kid. Yes, okay, I was weak. I couldn't stand up to my father. I believed the crap they fed me. I turned my back on the only good thing in my life. And for what?!" She slapped her thighs. "All I did was hurt you. And me."

His face shot up.

"I've run from this truth all this time, Don. I've been hiding and trying to outrun it, to distract myself from it. But I can't. Not anymore. Not after this. What you and your family's been through. After seeing you almost lose Mikey. I know that I would die without you. Because I love you, Donatello. Nothing will change that. Nothing will ever change that."

"I don't believe you."

His words made her mouth snap shut. She clenched her jaw and fought the urge to pummel him into understanding.

With a grim look he turned to look again at whatever it was in the shop he wanted her to see. When he tilted his head back to her there was a sly expression on his face that she didn't like. Uneasiness slid through her. He raised his arm and pointed. She followed the line of his indication to a large form in the center of the room. A container not covered with a tarp. In the dust on the floor, she saw where he'd dragged it in. Her pulse flickered as her heart galloped. It was a large plastic bin.

"When you see what I've done. You'll know there's no way you can still love me."

She turned slowly towards the box. One step followed another. He floated behind her like a wraith. The air she sucked in iced the back of her throat and her head was pounding. Her knees gave out and she dropped suddenly, unable to support herself and knelt next to the plastic bin. The cover was sealed and it bulged, as though something had warped it.

"I did this to be free. Free from the hurt that remained. After all these years it would not abate. I tried so many ways to get rid of it. But it wouldn't stop hurting. There was an inkling when we rescued Michelangelo. There was a plan as Leonardo started to search with my strict instructions to call me as soon as he closed in on our prey. And I was at peace with my decision. I accepted it was the only way to be rid of myself. To know that after this . . . I would be empty. Then you said . . . but it was too late."

She rested her hands atop the cover. It was oddly warm. And though it was only an illusion, she thought she felt the cover rise and fall like an animal breathing. A dying thing. She closed her eyes and swallowed. She made up her mind. With deliberate motions she unlatched the sides.

First the left.

Then the right with some difficulty.

A scent of something acrid hit her. Burnt, chemical. Unnatural and raw. Fear slipped slick fingers along the back of her neck and spine. Her stomach rolled. She heard him turn away, making a strangled sound, making her pause. She cocked her head to see him leaning against the counter.

"Do it! Get it over with!" he shouted. In a swift move he knocked everything off to one side with a roar. He followed the items as they crashed to the floor. He crumpled and she was on him.

"I don't care," she whispered fervently into the side of his face. "I don't care what you've done."

"No," he moaned and clutched at his head.

"Listen to me! It doesn't matter! I don't care!"

He turned his face to her and clutched at her shoulders. "No, April. I'm a monster. Like they always knew. I'm capable of horrible things."

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head in defiance. "I don't care," she repeated, meaning every word. "It changes nothing. Nothing."

He laughed in her face and threw his head back. "You don't get it. You have to see what I've done."

"I don't care," she repeated firmly.

"April, I tortured a defenseless man. Let me be perfectly clear, so you understand. I cut pieces from his body and then disemboweled him while he was still alive. I pulled his entrails out . . . and made sure he was still alive while I slowly dismembered him, then I . . ."

He went on describing the horrors he'd committed in the name of vengeance. In the name of exchanging his heart for some shred of peace from the agony she had left him with. She closed her eyes. Knowing what he was saying was true. Wishing it wasn't. Knowing always, that he had this darkness buried deep within him. This cold fury. She knew him better than his family and while this may shock and horrify them, she had long ago recognized it and accepted this side of him. Just as she understood that this was all her fault. Pushing him to the brink, until he fell over into that pit that dwelled within the deepest most hidden parts of his soul.

But she would pull him out. She would not let him fall further into this abyss. She would not allow this self-destruction. She would not let the monster that hurt Mikey steal Donatello away from her or his family as well. They needed him. If they were going to get through this, it would have to be together. That man had done enough to this family. It had to end.

"Stop."

He did not. He went on about the blood, about the sounds the man made. About the sickening joy he felt in dishing out revenge against the beast who forced him to amputate his brother's tail. What he did in kind to the man. He pushed her back towards the bin.

"You have to look to understand."

"Stop."

"Look at what I've done!"

He groped at her, shoving her face towards it. No longer speaking in coherent sentences, howling about being a monster.

She fumbled and fought him, knocking against the bin and hearing the sickening sloshing sound from within along with the subtle thud of something larger bumping against the inside. She twisted to come up and managed to get between his arms. They struggled until she brought her mouth up, pressed it to his.

He froze, then sobbed into the kiss. Trying to pull away from her now the roles reversed and she gripped his lab coat and held fast as he shuffled on his hands and knees with her beneath him. He fell to one side and she climbed on top of him, brushing the sides of his face with her fingers, stroking the sides of his head as he shook it back and forth but finally submitting to her and kissing her back. Deeply. With a ravaging hunger.

Heat bloomed through her as she felt his body's sharp response as his hips bucked. His tongue plundered her mouth. Running his fingers through her hair, gripping the back of her head and pulling her roughly to the side to roll on top of her; he kissed her passionately. Jostling into the bin with its hideous contents, sliding it slightly away.

He raised his head, panting; eyes searching hers. "B-but," he said breathlessly, "What I've done . . . You can't still . . . I'm a monster."

"And I'm the woman who loves you."

His mouth hung open and his frown deepened, his head shook slightly from side to side. She reached up and gently, pulled him down, down into her arms until he resisted no longer; until his body shook and he cried into her as she covered him in all her love; pulling him out of the darkness; recovering him; protecting him.

For now on. Always.

* * *

The computer screen stared back at him. He sat hunched over the keyboard. After some hesitation, he began typing. After a few minutes, he paused. He sat back and then leaned forward. He typed some more, frowning and gritting his teeth as he did. He slumped in his seat. He raised his hand. His fingertip hovered over the enter button.

His stomach clenched and his heart fluttered. He'd been ghosting through several 'survivor' websites that April had written down for him to take a look at when he felt up for it. He was about to introduce himself on one that focused on male abuse and rape cases. It was only one of a few that he'd found. He'd spent two weeks reading survivor stories, going from feeling angry, to sickened, to giddy light-headedness.

All at once it was a relief and a terrible feeling to know that he wasn't alone. That others had experienced what he'd gone through, or at least, very similarly to what he'd been put through. It seemed too real and he wondered how much was and how much was made up.

Though it had been nearly a year since they rid the world of the horror that was Malcolm, Mikey had not had the courage to talk to anyone about what had happened. He and his family moved forward and did their best to put it all behind them. Mikey tried hard not to let the nightmares and the flashbacks interrupt the pretending. He put on a brave front, as much as he could manage. But he spent most days drifting in and out of a smothering, hidden depression. Forced to seem somewhat normal so that his family wouldn't worry about him, because, hell, what could they do about it?

Leo and Raph weren't fooled. Master Splinter merely went on, probably determined to put as much time between what happened and their lives as he could. It made sense, in a way, Mikey realized. Sure, he had to move forward to get past it. Like anything else. For his family, he had to get it together already.

But he found it was becoming harder and harder to do things that he thought would have become easier at this point. Stupid things. Stepping into the bathtub to take a shower was near impossible. He'd been sponging himself down instead of having a proper shower for the past three months. He'd step into the shower room and simply freeze up. He decided he didn't like how the water felt against his skin. The rag and bucket worked fine to clean him anyway.

He moved forward and adjusted. No more showers. Fine.

Just looking at the wall of weapons in the dojo caused him to start shivering in fright. He'd clench his fists and excused himself from training to run into his room where he could ride out the hyperventilating in private. His chest would pinch and he would feel his chucks going into his body. The only thing to make it stop would be to hold his teddy bear and bite the top of its stuffed head until it passed and he calmed down.

He was still such a baby. But it helped him move forward. Like his father would want. So, he tried his best not to see the wall when he went in and trained. Raph's heavy bag in his room was his favorite spot in the lair aside from his own room because of it. Raph would say nothing, only keep one eye trained on him as he read his motorcycle magazine.

The weirdest thing was that certain colors set him off. Gray. Gray was bad. Malcolm's eyes were gray, so he guessed that made sense. But he found yellow made him uneasy and that made no sense to him at all. And then the smells. Why the scent of cooked pork suddenly turned his stomach to a point of vomiting, he had no idea.

But he did his best to adjust. He laughed and when he did, he was loud and made sure everyone heard it. He watched horror movies by the truckload. The gorier the better. And if that surprised his brothers, no one said anything. He'd been changed, despite not wanting it to be true. It was there. But not like he'd have thought. He could sit in front of the television and watch the goriest slasher flicks without a blink of his eye, but then a commercial would come on with a smiling woman being embraced by a boyfriend or kittens wrestling and he'd burst out crying and have to leave the room.

Things were supposed to get better. If he stumbled forward, wasn't that right? Wasn't that what Master Splinter was showing him?

Donatello came back and checked on him, examined his nubby excuse for a tail and he burst out crying again until Don had to hold him up. Every time he stepped into the lab he burst into uncontrollable sobbing. He was sure he was scaring the crap out of Don. Though his brother would only sit on the floor next to him, or hold him, without a word. And it was his silence that Mikey was grateful for. Because he told no one about these break downs. It gave Mikey a slight sense of control. For that he was grateful.

But one day, about three months ago, he must have been standing a little too long on the train tracks, lost in the light coming down the tunnel, riveted to the spot, oblivious to Raphael's screams; until his brother plowed into him, knocking him off the tracks as the train thundered by, missing his brother's feet by an inch and not much more. Raph had beaten him, losing his mind in terror at nearly seeing his brother torn to bits by the speeding train. He'd thrown him against the bricks, pressing his forearm into Mikey's throat.

"What are you trying ta do!? Get yourself killed!? After everything ya been through?! Ya just gonna give up!?"

"I-I'm sorry!" Mikey had moaned.

"You fuckin' nutcase! You fuckin' asshole! You know what that would do ta us?! You selfish bastard?! Huh!? Only thinkin' of yourself?!"

"No . . . I'm . . . S-Stop!" He thrashed and Raph slammed him once more. He shrieked, "Malcolm,  _stop!"_

Raph jumped. He let Mikey go and fell backwards, horrified. Mikey slumped to the ground, covering his head, shuddering and moaning piteously.

"Mikey, I – I . . . oh god, oh fuck. I'm sorry."

He crawled over to his brother and tried to hold him.

_"Don't touch me!"_

Raphael sat back on his heels. Miserable and helpless, listening to his brother's anguished wailing until his face was wet with his own tears. Finally the sobbing faded and fell to soft, broken gasps. They walked home in oppressive silence.

Later that night, April had given him the list of websites to look at.

Mikey reread what he'd typed. A general description of how old he was and how he'd been kidnapped and abused in the most over-reaching terms. He wasn't ready to go into any sort of detail. Not yet. He was tempted to erase it all. He fidgeted, but then, swearing under his breath he hit the enter button.

"Here goes nothing."

The next day, when he checked his messages, he saw there were more than a dozen replies. He opened the page and began to read the words of support and offerings of understanding and comfort. He couldn't believe it. All these people that wanted to help him. That didn't even know him, but offered so much kindness. He was overwhelmed.

He started to cry.

He jumped when he felt Leonardo's hand gently rest on his shoulder an hour later. "Hey," he said softly as he crouched next to Mikey.

"Oh," Mikey wiped at his face and chuckled. "I'm . . . okay. I just . . . got, uh, you know. I'm okay."

"I know. I just wanted to tell you how proud of you we are. I know it hasn't been easy. But you've been really brave."

Mikey chuckled. "I don't feel brave."

"Well, you usually can't see it until you're a bit removed. But trust me." He glanced at the computer screen then back at his youngest brother, staring at him with wide, hopeful eyes. "You're the bravest person I've ever known."

"The strongest, too," Raph said from behind Leonardo. Mikey ducked his head and fidgeted. Using his toes, he spun the computer chair around to face his brothers.

"I wouldn't have had the mental strength to go through what you did and come out of it in one piece. You're amazing, little brother," Donatello added as he stepped into the room behind Raphael.

Mikey closed his eyes.

He felt the small kiss placed upon the top of his head and he opened his eyes to see Master Splinter standing over him.

"You are an incredible example to your brothers. One of strength and bravery, intelligence and compassion. I am so very proud of you, my son. My bright, loving child. We are all better for having you in our lives."

He felt choked with emotion, but he managed out a whisper, "Th-Thank you."

As his brothers embraced him in a giant group hug, fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. For a second, he felt embarrassed at the display. But he cracked his eyes open to see them all teary-eyed with some streaks down their cheeks. His brave, smart, strong brothers all reduced to crying babies over him.

He started to giggle until he broke into a laugh that was as real as the love filling the room, filling his heart. Making him whole.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What can I even say - this story has been one of the most incredible experiences of my life. The reviews, I mean, wow. I've never had so many people respond like this to one of my stories. It makes me incredibly proud. Extremely humbled. I cannot even start to express my gratitude to the people who take a moment to leave me a review, who've reached out to talk with me in pm's, who've followed and favorited this epic . . . novel of a fanfiction, lol. I love hearing from you. I really do.
> 
> Thank you for being there for me. You make me want to write better. You push me forward when I doubt myself. You make me feel like this is all worth something to someone.
> 
> If you enjoy darker pieces, be sure to watch for What Makes a Father - I'll be posting that here soon - and check out Boundless, a one shot which features Donatello at his darkest point.
> 
> I will now be working on Tender Trap III - Sins of the Fathers, oh what I have planned, heh heh hee, as well as Lost in the Gloaming and my newest DonxApril love story, Love's Causality. Be sure to check them out.
> 
> Until then,
> 
> I'll see you in another story.

**Author's Note:**

> Hang on, Mikey fans, it's gonna be a hell of a ride. Don't forget to leave me encouragement in the form of reviews, questions, comments, rants, opinions, suggestions (especially for music!)


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